


You’ve Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes)

by lucythegoosey



Category: Fine Line - Harry Styles (Album), One Direction
Genre: Album: Fine Line (Harry Styles), Album: Harry Styles (Harry Styles), Album: Made in the A.M. (One Direction), Album: Walls (Louis Tomlinson), Alternate Canon, Angst, Bottom Louis, Canon, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, Exes, Fluff, Halloween, Hate Sex, I didn't mean for this???, Love/Hate, M/M, Made in the A.M. Tour, New Year's Eve, One Direction Reunion, POV Harry Styles, Post-Break Up, Smut, So much angst, THIS FIC IS STUNT FREE!, Top Harry, mitam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 95,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucythegoosey/pseuds/lucythegoosey
Summary: Harry was in the biggest boy band in the world. He was also one half of the best (or worst, depends on who you ask) kept secret relationship in the music industry.Now, almost five years on, after One Direction has broken up, and Harry and Louis' relationship has as well, a video threatens to put everything at risk.One determined Irishman, a massive publicity stunt and two begrudging exes are all it takes to bring One Direction back to life and maybe, just maybe, Harry and Louis' mangled love life too.Or: Harry and Louis are forced to fake-date after an old video from when they were dating emerges.Post on Tumblrhere!and gifsethereTranslations:ItalianandRussianView chapter one for disclaimers.
Relationships: Ashley Benson/Cara Delevigne, Bella Hadid/Kendall Jenner, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Sarah Jones/Mitch Rowland
Comments: 473
Kudos: 2001





	1. A Bad Date and A Phone Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction, purely for entertainment purposes. I am not affiliated with One Direction. People who have passed away in real life are mentioned in present tense out of respect for their memory but are not central to the story. **This story is stunt free** (no mention of Babygate, and only brief mention of past beards). It is also drama free!! (no cheating and no toxic behaviour).
> 
> Honestly, nobody asked for this... So. I am sorry. It's just a bit of fun! I did not have a beta or editor for large portions of this, so any mistakes are at my discretion.
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry is on a bad date when he gets the news. Granted, if it had been a good date, it would have become bad thanks to the news. Thinking about what-ifs is redundant, though. 

He has a mouthful of linguini when his phone rings. He ignores it at first, not because of riveting conversation but out of politeness. Usually, his phone is on silent when he goes out anyway - he hates being the guy taking business calls during a meal. But with plans in the works for a band reunion, he’s had to make certain accommodations. 

It rings again, and this time his date gives him a pointed look. Harry huffs, pulling his phone out to see it’s his manager calling.

“Probably should take this,” he concedes, unlocking his phone. It’s at his ear as he mouths to the man opposite him, “Sorry.” 

“You alone?” His manager, Jane, says in greeting. 

“Uh...” he looks at his date, who seems more interested in his steak than who Harry could be talking to. “Sort of?” 

“Okay, I guess that will do. You’re going to want to be alone to hear this.”

Harry could feel his stomach drop. “What is it?” He asks in a low panic. 

“No, nothing like that,” Jane quickly amends. He feels himself relax. He doesn’t know why his manager would call if there was a family emergency, but it doesn’t stop the irrational fear from rising in his throat. “But not good either.”

“Okay...” Harry pauses. “Well, what is it?” 

“It’s about Louis.”

Silence. Harry can physically feel the way his heart rate quickens at the name. No need to explain further, the single word has him rising from his chair and finding a place outside of the crowded dining area. 

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he says, eyes squeezed shut. He stands between the hallway and the entrance to the kitchen, the low hum of people’s conversations quieting. 

It isn’t the first time his manager has mentioned Louis, considering their history, and everything with One Direction on the horizon. He hasn’t seen him in years. 

And still. 

In the split second, it takes for Jane to answer, Harry’s mind does somersaults. Louis dropping out of the reunion. Louis bad-mouthing him to the press. Louis engaged. He’s not seeing anyone though, is he? _God_ , Harry doesn’t remember. 

“Okay. How do I put this lightly?” Jane is a great manager, but she’s always been terrible at delivering awkward information. “There’s a video. Of the two of you.” 

Harry freezes. That is not what he expected. If this was a few years ago, it would be a different story. Before the band broke up, before he and Louis broke up, they were constantly on edge about this sort of thing. They had a contingency plan for every possible scenario - being seen in public, being photographed or filmed - anything that could out them. But Harry’s been publicly out as bisexual for a while now, not seeing Louis that entire time, and he forgot what it was like. He forgot the pain in his chest. 

“It’s nothing crazy. Not a sex tape or anything. Wait, please tell me you don’t have a sex tape?”

“We don’t have a sex tape!” Harry hisses under his breath, cheeks going red. Even if they did, neither of them would have kept it after the break-up. 

“Good, good. Just checking.” Jane laughs nervously. “Anyway. It’s a video, I don’t know how old but it’s... not great. You’re very... friendly.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Harry mutters, holding the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even bother asking if she was sure it was them. She wouldn't have called if she wasn’t. “How friendly?”

“Holding hands. Looking very familiar with one another,” Jane pauses, heaving a sigh that makes the mic of her phone crackle. “Kissing.” 

“Shit.” Harry gulps. 

“Yes, _shit_.”

“Show me it.” Harry quips, unable to think further than that. He has to know what he’s dealing with. He and Louis must have taken millions of incriminating photos, videos, everything over the five years they dated. For God’s sake, their email exchanges were evidence enough. 

“Sending now,” Jane replies, and he hears his phone ping as her message lands in his inbox. 

Harry takes the phone away from his ear, opening up the text. He looks at the thumbnail, already feeling his skin prickling. He presses play.

In the grainy footage, Harry and Louis are sidled on a couch. _Their_ couch, in their old place. Not that anyone would know. Harry’s hair is still long, the longest it got before he cut it. Louis looks virtually the same, though Harry can’t say for sure. He only sees pictures of Louis in the press, now. He knows just by looking at it that this has to be some time in 2016 before Harry cut off all his hair for ‘Dunkirk’ and before Louis moved out for good. 

Louis is basically on Harry’s lap, legs comfortably draped across Harry’s. He’s fiddling with Harry’s hair (he was always doing that, and Harry somehow forgot that until now), curling it around his finger and scratching at the roots. The bizarre thing is Harry feels the ghost of the touch in his scalp, like a phantom limb. 

They’re talking, just talking. It’s over several other voices so Harry can’t really make out what is actually being said, but it doesn’t matter. Harry has a strong suspicion Niall is the one filming because he was always doing that sort of thing, and his signature camera style was as shaking as this video is. 

Video Harry says something to Louis, he laughs, and Harry grins proudly. Like he can’t believe he made Louis Tomlinson laugh. And then they lean forward simultaneously and kiss. Just a peck, nothing salacious or steamy. An everyday, ordinary kiss. Like the hundreds they shared. Thought they’d share them forever if Harry is honest. 

“Get a room!” An Irish accent shouts, confirming that yes, Niall is the one behind the camera. Louis looks up, directly in the camera, and flips it the bird. Niall’s carefree laughter echoes around, the visuals shaking as his shoulders do, and then it cuts off, just like that. 

It’s about fifteen seconds, but it’s enough. 

Harry stares at the screen, unsure what to feel. He should be afraid, he _should_ be nervous, and he is. But mostly he’s just sad. When the break up was fresh, Harry used to obsess over stuff like this. He’d look at pictures of them, analyse the videos on the last tour. When was the moment Louis decided to leave? When was the moment Harry stopped trying? He thought he could find it on their faces, but that sort of thing is so deeply ingrained. One or two times he stooped so low as to actually google “Larry Stylinson” over a bottle of wine and just spend hours scrolling. But he hasn’t been forced to see who they were together for a long time. It’s disarming. 

“The good news is,” Jane’s voice cuts through his thoughts. He slowly brings the phone to his ear to hear better. “Louis’ team hasn’t commented on it yet, so we have time to figure out our angle.” 

“This is on the internet?” He asks, and he’s surprised to feel himself tearing up. What a disaster. 

“We’ve got everyone on it trying to find who leaked it. The original tweet got deleted right away but, people already saved it. Reposted it. We think right now that it was a hack, probably Niall's ICloud. Doubt anyone was trying to find this. You’re just unlucky.”

“Plausible deniability?” He asks, already knowing there’s no way. 

“You could try, but it would probably end up reflecting badly on you,” she pauses, sighs. “It’s clearly you two. And doctored videos are so much harder to prove, anyway.”

“Have... have you spoken to Louis?” He holds his breath. The idea of Louis watching what he just saw is mortifying. 

“Not directly,” Jane says. “But his manager is keen to set up a meeting. Normally we’d just release a statement, confirming or denying or whatever, and hope everyone forgets about it. But... this is bigger than that. It’s been a few years but the fan base for you both is still huge. This is just going to make it bigger. They won’t be quiet about it.” She pauses. “And, I hate to make it about work, but with the reunion coming up, we have to respond appropriately. For Niall and Liam, as well. For the sake of the band.”

“Louis isn’t out.” Harry surprises himself when he says this. He tried, over the years, to keep his distance. He made sure not to keep tabs on his ex more than was necessary. But he knew for a fact that Louis hadn’t come out. That this single act, by some heartless person trying to get their fifteen minutes of fame, has taken that right away from him. 

“No, he’s not.”

“But now everyone knows,” Harry states. “Now everyone knows he’s gay.” It feels so strange to think of Louis being out because of something to do with Harry when they haven’t been together in nearly three years. It feels even stranger because they always wanted to do this together, and in the end they sort of did. Just not how Harry imagined.

“Yes.” 

“No meeting,” Harry decides firmly, frowning at nothing. A waiter walks past him into the kitchen and does a double-take when he realises who he is. He hesitates like maybe he wanted to ask for a photo, but eventually thinks better of it and walks away. “Not right away. I should... I should see him first. Alone.” 

“I can set that up,” Jane says but Harry stops her before she can continue. 

“No, this is my mess. I’ll deal with it,” he nods to himself as if that somehow makes the situation any better. “I’ll call you when we are ready to talk business.”

“Harry...” she began, sounding uneasy. “You didn’t exactly end things on the best of terms.” 

“No, I know.” He takes a deep breath. In his mind a flash of Louis’ defeated face, a slamming door, Harry yelling into their empty house. “But I have to do this.” 

Soon after, Harry hangs up and returns to his date. He could, in theory, finish eating dinner. It would be the polite thing to do, considering he already made this guy wait while he took a call. But he can’t envision small talk after what he’s just found out, can’t picture himself forcing pleasantries through the rest of dinner and possible desert. He just can’t do it. 

He apologises to his date, claims he has somewhere urgent he needs to be, which is true and puts on his coat. His date doesn’t seem to believe him, but he shrugs like it doesn’t matter either way. 

And just like that, after three years of silence and separation, Harry is leaving this upscale Soho restaurant in the middle of his meal to speak to Louis Tomlinson.


	2. Number Nine, Yellow Door

It’s only when Harry gets in his car and begins to drive does he realise he has no idea where he’s going. He never actually visited Louis’ new place. Why would he? It would have been too painful, and then time passed, their lives went in completely different directions and something as normal as knowing each other’s address became redundant.

He has a few options here. He could contact Louis directly about it, a mutual friend, or One Direction’s team. He decides on the latter because it requires the least amount of explaining himself.

By the time he has the address, his mentions online have blown up. The ones from friends and family came through via private texts, asking if he’s okay, whether he and Louis are back together, etc. He considers calling Sarah and Mitch up, getting them to talk him out of seeing Louis. But their texts are just as confused as the rest of them. There’s a whole circle of people who he considers lifelong friends who have no idea he and Louis ever dated. Jesus Christ. What a fucking disaster.

The rest of the world outside Harry’s bubble has begun to realise what the video really means - the gravity of it - and now it’s circulating like wildfire. He’s been tagged in endless Instagram and Twitter posts. He catches a glimpse of endless green and blue heart emojis popping up on his lock screen. It makes him cringe – physically cringe – so he turns off his notifications entirely.

Around the time Harry and Louis broke up, Harry began distancing himself from social media. So much of it had felt tied to what he had with Louis; from embarrassing flirting between them on Twitter to subliminal images in his Instagram feed. When they made a whole account for a Build A Bear, Harry became vaguely aware that things had gotten out of hand. But at the time it had felt right, a way to talk to the fans truthfully without really exposing themselves. But then it became a painful reminder of everything Harry no longer had, and a means to keep up unhealthy coping mechanisms.

He decided his happiness had become dependent on what others thought of him, and he wanted to change that. It was all just white noise, Louis had reminded him in the past, and without his reassurance, Harry had to navigate it all on his own.

Now, aside from checking fan engagement with new projects, Harry has an assistant post promotional images on his behalf. Sometimes he tweets weird shit, but more often than not that leads to lurking, which leads to moping, and he’s better than that. Or so he likes to believe.

It occurs to him, as he pulls up outside a classy, but unassuming townhouse in Hackney (the complete other side of London to where they lived as a couple. That’s not lost to Harry), that Louis may not be home. Or worse, he might have company.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters to himself, hands gripping the steering wheel for dear life. Suddenly, he’s become so aware of how rash he’s being. He hasn’t seen Louis in _years_. They haven’t even spoken. And now he’s showing up unannounced in the middle of the night.

Harry idles, the engine rumbling, almost egging him on spluttering: _do it, do it, do it._

He can still back out. Louis would have no idea Harry showed up at his place. But that won’t stop tomorrow from arriving, from the onslaught of shit to come.

No, he has to do this.

Harry turns his car off, counts to ten then gets out and approaches the yellow front door. He takes a deep breath in and presses the buzzer, staring at the brass number 9 at eye level. He hears the bell echoing through the hallway, triggering raucous barks from Louis’ dogs. Their claws clatter against the hardwood of the entryway as they lumber to the front door.

Harry can see their silhouettes through a slither of glass panelling either side of the front door. It’s the first time he’s actually seen them in person. Harry’s a cat person. Louis bought two massive dogs within months of their break up. Go figure.

Next, the padding of feet, and that’s when reality kicks in for Harry. Louis’ sleepy voice gently shushes his dogs, telling them to calm down. He hasn’t heard that in so long. The sound causes an involuntary cool feeling across his body, a numb tingling in his fingertips. He thinks he may faint. He wills his body to stay conscious. The mere image of what a fucking embarrassing way that would be to come back into Louis’ life keeping him from keeling over.

And then the door swings open, and Louis stands before Harry looking handsomely dishevelled. The cold feeling is still there, still flooding his veins, but now it’s mixed with something else. Somehow Harry forgot to prepare for this. For Louis’ beauty. Shit.

Harry’s stomach lurches, and he can feel the literal ache of his heart in his chest. It’s such a visceral and instant reaction that he almost needs to sit down. People call it heartbreak for a reason. It hurts like fucking hell.

“Harry?” Louis quirks his head to one side, squinting. He’s in flannelette plaid pyjamas, with bare feet and scruffy hair. The moment of recognition on his face is so complex, Harry can see every emotion running through Louis’ mind. He can see the second Louis lands on anger. “What the fuck?”

Of all the ways Harry pictured their reunion playing out, this isn’t it.

He knew at some point this day would come. Over the months of casual chats back and forth between Niall and Liam about touring _Made In The AM_ as a gift to the fans for the ten year anniversary of the band, Harry always carefully avoided the prospect of Louis’ involvement. Although he knew, in the back of his mind, that he’d eventually have to see his ex, that they would have to perform together again, it always felt like an intangible future. Something so far off he wouldn’t have to deal with it until the very last second. If Harry had it his way, he wouldn’t see Louis until soundcheck and rehearsals began for the tour next year.

Louis, who at first seemed confused, now stares stonily. As if Harry is the last person on Earth he wants to see right now.

“This is about the video, isn’t it?” Louis finally says, his Doncaster accent thicker than Harry remembers. It’s a lovely sound, but it’s awful too because he’s not used to being spoken to with such aggression. He almost forgot how it got between them in the end. Almost forgot that Louis might still hate him for it.

“You know about it, then?” Harry answers with his own question.

“I don’t live under a rock, Harry.”

“Right.” So this is how it was going to be. Three years hasn’t changed much. He waits for a beat, before doing away with niceties. “Are you going to let me in?” Harry keeps his lips firm, trying to ignore the two dogs who, unaware of the hostility between the men, keenly vie for their attention.

Louis huffs, and turns his back on Harry, walking back through the hallway. Harry takes that as a yes, and follows him, closing the door gently behind him.

“Why are you here, Harry?” Louis asks, sounding exhausted. Harry hates the way Louis keeps tacking his name on the end of every sentence. He hates how patronising it sounds. But mostly, he hates how it just reminds him of all the other things Louis used to call him.

“You know why. Because of the video,” Harry begins, confused. He follows Louis into an open plan kitchen and living room, larger than most terraces in the area, but with the same old English charm. If it were any other situation, Harry would take the time to admire the wainscoting. He can hardly image that going down well, right now, though.

“No,” Louis interrupts, “Why _actually_ ,” he raises his eyebrows. “What do you expect me to do?”

“What do I…?” Harry repeats softly, brows knitted. “No, Louis, that’s not it. I’m not here for that.” He realises as he says it that it’s the truth. It’s refreshing to mean what he says when it comes to Louis. “I wanted to talk. See if you’re okay.”

“At ten at night.” Louis folded his arms. His defences are so high up that Harry can practically see the wall between them.

“Okay,” Harry begins. “I think we need to start again here.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Thought to ask what I think?”

“Louis,” Harry says it slower and more deeply than before. Commanding a truce. “Can you just – for _one second_ – can’t we,” he struggles for a moment, feeling the rising anger in his chest. He forces himself to stop, to take a deep breath. How stupid of him to think he would be received with open arms, that Louis would be kind. “How are we at _this_ already?”

“I don’t know, Harry! _Maybe_ because my ex-boyfriend shows up at me door after two years of zero contact to ask if I am okay with being outed in a video that is plastered all over the internet?” Louis says this quickly, venom dripping in every syllable he annunciates.

“That’s not fair,” Harry says quietly. “You haven’t talked to me for two years either.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis snaps. “Seriously, fuck off with this whole act of being the better bloke. Just admit that you’re pissed too.”

“I am pissed!” Harry raises his voice, cracking completely. “I just don’t see how it’s helping anything to take it out on each other!”

Louis stares and Harry has no idea what he’s thinking. That kind of look used to mean something, somewhere, someplace but now it might as well be as if Louis is speaking a different language.

“Fine.” Louis waits for a moment, before moving off to the couch. He slumps back into it with a deep sigh. As quickly as things rose, they’ve somehow plateaued. “Let’s start again.” He agrees, voice hoarse with a hidden vulnerability. Harry only hears it because even after all this time, he is so attuned to every mood shift in Louis as if it were his own.

Harry slowly moves toward him, easing into the couch with a verging on the awkward, distance between them.

“Hi,” he says tentatively, feeling every bit the idiot.

“Hi,” Louis says, not making eye contact.

Harry fiddles with one of the rings on his fingers nervously. “I’m sorry I showed up out of the blue like that.”

“Thank you,” Louis says quietly.

One of the dogs, Cliff, Harry thinks it’s called, leaps up on the couch and nearly knocks Louis over on his way to Harry.

“Bloody dog!” Louis curses under his breath and, realizing the dog has cut the tension between them, nervously laughs. Harry smiles, and it almost hurts doing this with Louis. Almost. “Clumsiest animal I’ve ever met.”

“He’s cute,” Harry says, patting the panting dog gingerly. He never knows how to act around big dogs. It’s tail wags back and forth with vigour, so he must be doing alright.

“This is weird, Harry.” Louis states and the smile slides off Harry's face. “I mean, what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, turning his body so he’s facing Louis. “I thought if this happened I would know exactly what to do. But I don’t.”

“Yeah, me too.” Louis sweeps his fringe out of his eyes, he’s in need of a haircut, and it’s so lovely to see him.

“I never thought… we would be doing _this_ … now,” Harry concludes, knowing he must sound vague. Any time he imagined people finding out about them, they had one another. They were on each other’s team. But they haven’t been for a long time now. It feels so unfair.

“Me either,” Louis says, and of course he gets it. He always has.

“We can’t deny it. It’s clearly us.”

“I know,” Louis nods. “And I…” he looks thoughtful. Like he’s struggling to decide if opening up right now is a good idea. Harry remains silent, afraid to break the tenuous equilibrium. “Honestly Harry? I don’t want to anyway. Even if we could. I’m tired.”

Harry exhales. “I know what you mean. It’s kind of a relief, in a strange way.”

“But we can’t just leave it, either. My manager said I could just release a statement saying we split up, but that doesn’t feel right.”

“So we won’t do that then.” Harry decides, and the look of thanks on Louis’ face means everything.

“I don’t want to disappoint anyone,” Louis mumbles, averting Harry’s unwavering gaze. “The fans have been supporting us for years… about this,” he gestures vaguely between them. “It would be just shit, absolutely _shit_ to have to tell them we messed it all up.”

Harry doesn’t say what he’s thinking. That it would be shit, but it’s what happened all the same. They can’t take back what they did. They can’t take back the last near-decade. And if they could, would Harry want to? Would he erase the good along with the bad? There were days he used to wish they had never met, it hurt that badly. Right now he isn’t so sure.

“Where does that leave us, then?” Harry asks, so painfully aware of every muscle in his body, the way it moves in response to Louis. The primal pull to his ex-boyfriend is still there.

“We need to sleep on it. And then… tomorrow…” Louis shakes his head. “Tomorrow we call the boys up to chat about it.”

“Do they know?” Harry hadn’t had a chance during the drive over from the restaurant to figure out how much Niall and Liam might have heard.

“Spoke to Nialler on the phone before you got here, actually. Liam is in LA, so he might not have heard yet.”

They fall into a silence that is not uncomfortable, but not easy either. Harry runs his fingers through his hair. Louis watches.

“Still so short.”

“Mm?” Harry blinks, hands dropping in his lap.

Louis’ face turns scarlet, realising a moment too late that he said that out loud.

“Your hair,” he recovers, clearing his throat. “You’ve kept it so short.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry makes a show of ruffling it up. “Easier to manage now.”

Louis nods. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” Harry dares a glance at Louis, eyes softening when they meet blue. “You don’t prefer it long?” He asks, totally on a whim.

Louis smiles sadly, eyes crinkling. “You don’t really want me to answer that.”

“No,” Harry agrees, a lump in his throat. “Guess not.”

Louis fiddles with his fringe, eyeing Harry curiously. “You’re dressed up,” he nods in a gesture to Harry’s outfit. “Had a hot date?” he asks playfully, letting out a short laugh.

Harry instinctively looks down at himself, doing a once over of his own outfit. He’s wearing white dress pants, high waisted, and a flouncy shimmery blue shirt. His matching suit jacket has little embroidered designs on it. It isn’t exactly the kind of outfit he’d wear to run errands.

He looks back up at Louis, his mouth going dry.

“Oh,” Louis’ face drains of colour. Harry wishes he had a better poker face or was a quicker liar because the wounded look on Louis’ face is unbearable. And then it’s gone, replaced with something ingenuine, something so far away from the Louis that Harry remembers he’s almost unrecognisable.

“Right,” Louis says robotically, jaw tightening.

The air becomes cold again, and Harry has nobody to blame but himself.

“Louis–” he begins, not knowing what he can even say.

“No, no,” Louis assures, frowning. “Not my business.”

Harry waits a few seconds, wracking his brains for something to say, a way to change the subject and redeem the conversation. With anybody else, he can lie, he can fake niceties, he can be charming. But around Louis, his brain goes fuzzy, and he can’t figure out a way to disperse the icy atmosphere.

“I should go,” Harry says quietly, daring Louis to want him. His heart is in his throat.

“Yeah. You should.” Louis agrees.

Harry rises, making his movements glacially slow, hoping Louis might flip the switch again and let his guard down. He doesn’t. Instead, he walks Harry silently to his front door, lingers awkwardly, and decides a curt nod is all he can offer his ex-boyfriend. Harry is left frozen in place on the front stoop, staring at the closed door, wondering where the hell they go from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! chapter twooooo hope this is alright. i don't know if i'll be able to post every friday (aest time) but i sure will try! :)


	3. A Blessing In Disguise

Harry organizes a phone call with his therapist, Celeste, after he gets the go-ahead from Jane about the meeting. He can’t see her in person since she’s in LA, but with everything going on lately, it only seems appropriate. Besides, if he has to see Louis again, he knows he’s going to need to talk to someone about it. 

Celeste won’t let him hang up once the meeting is scheduled, and keeps him on the line for another fifteen minutes, unwittingly talking him off the ledge. She agrees that although it’s a bizarre predicament that not many of her clients have ever been through, it doesn’t mean he can’t handle it with the coping mechanisms she’s taught him. She makes him promise, in that charming southern twang of hers, to do some meditation before the meeting with Louis, and to write down his feelings afterwards, so he doesn’t have to carry them around quietly until their next call. 

An hour later, feeling slightly more at ease, and as if his muscles have loosened, Harry heads out for the meeting. 

The meeting takes place in downtown London, at a temporary office space. Harry’s manager, Louis’ manager and a representative of Capitol Records who’s flown out from LA will be there. Niall and Liam agreed that although it concerns their involvement with One Direction, they’re mostly here for moral support. 

When Harry arrives, Niall and Liam are already there. Predictably, Louis is late. 

“How you holdin’ up, Haz?” Niall asks, patting his mate on the shoulder. Over the years since One Direction split, Niall is the one Harry has kept in contact with the most. He’s constantly instigating catch-ups, even on days Harry just wants to stay in bed all day. He’s also been the most vocally supportive of Harry’s solo music, even sending voice memo reviews of each song off ‘Harry Styles’ the album whenever Harry got the chance to send through demos. In return, Harry bites his tongue about Louis (though it can be hard, knowing Niall is just as close with his ex), and secretly attends any shows Niall has done in the London area over the years. 

“Good. Fine,” Harry says, then amends with, “Been better.” 

“Twitter is losing its mind, mate,” Liam says in greeting, pulling Harry into a hug. “About five different hashtags trending about it. Man, I never thought I’d see the day! It’s mental.” 

Liam, busy with parenthood and living in LA, lives a life so far removed from Harry’s that sometimes he thinks One Direction is the only thing they have in common. Even their solo music is on the complete opposite ends of the spectrum. Until recently, Harry and Liam felt like the kind of friendship forged only in the thick of shared experiences, and they didn’t quite find their footing together during hiatus. But when talks began of a MITAM tour a few months ago, Liam reconnected, and Harry’s been enjoying their unexpected rekindled bond. 

“That bad, really?” Harry winces.

“Worse even,” Niall adds. “Seriously. I was hounded all the way here just to get a statement about it.”

“Jesus,” Harry cursed. “M’ sorry, this is…” 

“Hey,” Niall nudges him, “Don’t even worry about it. I filmed the video, didn’t I?”

“You’re right,” Harry gives Niall a dark look. “This is your fault, Niall.” But then he drops the act, and smiles, making Niall cackle. 

“You had me for a second there, Harold.” Niall shakes his head, relieved.

The elevator pings open, and Louis walks out. Harry’s head whips around instinctively, taking him in. It’s the second time in 24 hours that he’s seen Louis, the second time in two years. He’s wearing a simple black hoodie, denim jeans and sneakers. The whole look is so basic, but so _soft_ somehow. Harry feels heat rising to his cheeks and he drops his gaze to the floor.

Louis sees the three of them chatting amicably, and appears to steel himself. For what, Harry isn’t sure. Then, almost as if what Harry just saw was a mirage, Louis breaks into a bright smile. He walks right past Harry and pulls Niall into a hug, then Liam, chatting animatedly. 

Harry waits, unsure of what to do. This is a situation he’s been in before, but not for a long time. Back in 2016, after Harry returned to London after filming _Dunkirk_ , he ran into Louis at Liam’s birthday party. He’d prepared for the worst, but he’d hoped enough time had passed for them to be amicable. Instead, Louis acted as if he was having the best night of his life - a little too boisterous, a little too loud. The life of the party, to be honest. Never once looking at Harry. At least, not when Harry was looking at him, anyway. 

At least that evening, Harry had distractions. He could hide. Right now, he has nowhere to go. He’s exposed. He doesn’t want to do anything that’ll make him look like a fool. So, instead, he says and does nothing. 

Niall raises his eyebrows over Louis’ shoulder at Harry, and Harry just shakes his head as if to say: _don’t worry, it’s nothing._

“Everyone thinks you must still be together,” The Capitol Records representative - Eddie - declares without so much as hello when the four bandmates have settled into the meeting room. Harry’s manager, Jane and Louis’, Helen, are seated either side of him. Jane gives Harry a reassuring smile as he enters.

Harry is the first to sit, and Louis makes a point of sitting as far from him as he can. Niall and Liam fill in the gap between them. 

“Even though it’s obviously an old video?” Louis asks, leaning back into his chair so the two front legs lift off the floor. “Harry’s hair…” 

“Yep. Even with Harry’s hair. It’s what they want to believe.” 

“What are our options?” Harry asks, frowning deeply to himself. 

“Well, we could set the record straight - no pun intended,” Eddie lets out a laugh, sees the stony faces looking back at him, and gets serious again. He looks at his notes. “Ahem, so we’d confirm that yes, you were a couple for the years during the band but that you split amicably some time ago and are on good terms.” 

Louis doesn’t even look at Harry when he says, “They won’t buy that.” Ouch. 

Harry clenches his jaw. Louis ignores him. Eddie looks between them both with the expression of a lost puppy. 

“Okay…” he looks at his notes again, floundering. Someone should have prepared this guy for the shitshow that is HarryandLouis. “Option two. We completely ignore it. Go on as planned, announce the MITAM limited tour dates for 2020 earlier than estimated and hope that distracts enough from the video.” 

“Not going to work,” Louis snaps, clearly getting more irritated by the minute. He’s sitting up straight now, but his foot is tapping fast under the table. One of his nervous ticks. 

“You got any better ideas, Louis?” Harry asks, his usual baritone of a voice echoing in the small space.

“Oh and I suppose you do?” Louis turns to him, looking him directly in the eyes for the first time the entire meeting. 

From the corner of his eye, Harry can see Niall’s fingers shoot to his mouth. He only bites his nails when he’s stressed.

“You’ve noticed I’m here, then,” Harry raises his eyebrows. It’s petty, it’s so fucking petty, but Louis’ blue sky eyes have gone ice-cold, and like a trigger, it makes Harry furious. He cannot believe he caught a glimpse of something tender, something raw last night, and it was snatched from him instantly. 

“What?” Louis’ eyes narrow, but there’s a flash of surprise on his face. As if he didn’t expect Harry to bite back. Because Harry rarely does. 

“I’m just surprised. Figured you’d go the whole meeting talking to the wall and not me.” Harry says slowly and cooly. 

“Lads, don’t you think maybe...” Niall begins hesitantly, cut off by Louis.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” Louis replies, looking angrier than Harry expected. “It’s nothing compared to _years_ -”

“Louis…” Liam warns, but neither he nor Niall are being acknowledged. 

“Why do you keep saying that?” Harry asks, “It takes two people to end a relationship, Louis,” His voice is rising an octave in disbelief. Both of them have forgotten that there are five other people in the room with them. “ _You_ moved out. _You_ stopped calling.”

“That’s right, I forgot Harry Styles can do no wrong,” Louis’ hands go up in the air out of exasperation. 

“Shut up the pair of ya!” Niall snaps, commanding the attention of the entire room. He blinks rapidly, looking stunned at his own aggression. He recovers quickly, glaring between Louis and Harry, who look like they’ve been slapped in the face. “I can’t hear any more of this. It’s been almost three years and you still can’t be in a room together without fighin’ like cats and dogs,” He looks back and forth, and when nobody denies anything, he adds, “It’s madness!” Liam is pouting, on the verge of tears. “I’ll pull the plug on this whole reunion tour if you lot keep acting like this.”

Panic settles over everybody in the room because Niall - out of all of them - has been the one most ardent about this tour. The one that has been rooting for them all since day one of the hiatus. He’s the one that said he’d drop anything and everything if One Direction came calling. And now it finally has, now the four of them are considering a short stint touring the album that they never got to perform, he’s threatening to cancel. 

Louis looks like he is about to protest, but Niall continues, “I’m serious, Tommo,” he turns his attention to Harry, “ _Both_ of you. I don’t want to be around you when you’re like this.” 

“We won’t be like this all the time.” Louis defends, though he doesn’t sound like he even believes it. 

“I don’t want to hear it!” Niall bellows, and Harry cannot believe his ears. In the ten years, Harry has known him, he’s never roused such emotion before. Niall has always been the peacemaker. He stayed good friends with both Harry and Louis during the break-up and never spoke ill of one to the other. In the first few months after the split, when Harry and Louis were trialling the whole ‘friends’ thing, Niall had always kept things light. He’d always tried so hard. Now, because of Harry and Louis’ selfish actions, he’s lost his temper. 

“If we come back now, or in twenty years, doesn't matter. It has to be as brothers,” Niall ignores the raised eyebrows from Louis at the choice word of ‘brothers’, too swept up in the emotion of his speech. “We do it for us. It’s not going to be like Zayn. I’m not doing that shit again,” Liam is nodding silently beside him, looking grateful that he isn’t the one being shouted at. “And right now, you two have shit to work on. I don’t care how you do it. But it has to be done. You think you can handle that?” 

The room falls into a deafening silence. 

“Y-yeah.” Louis stumbles over his words, frantically making eyes at Harry. 

“Of course, Niall.” Harry agrees, appearing composed on the outside, while inside he’s screaming. 

“It’s uh, well it’s going to sound crazy, but our final option…” Eddie interrupts, speaking for the first time in a solid ten minutes. Harry turns his gaze to him, almost glad to have this innocent bystander step in to diffuse the tension. “Would involve Harry and Louis spending more time together, hopefully, er, enabling them to work on their differences.” 

“I’m listening,” Niall says. 

Eddie looks between Jane and Louis’ agent, one of which nods to give him the go-ahead. They’ve put their heads together on something without the boys knowing. 

“We don’t say they broke up.” Eddie lets the words sink in. 

“Hang on a minute,” Liam chirps up, still frowning. “Like let people think they’re together?” 

Louis lets out a cold laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.” 

“Cheaper than couple’s therapy,” Niall remarks, looking amused. 

“I don’t mean to point out the obvious here,” Liam says, “But if Harry and Louis let people think they’re a couple, then isn’t that just a PR stunt?”

“Essentially, Liam, yes,” and when the entire room collectively groans, he quickly goes on, “Obviously, given your history,” He looks between Harry and Louis. “We understand the last thing you want to do is pretend. But if we have no other choice, this might be a blessing in disguise. We want to make sure you all present as a united front. All four of you. And with things… as icy as they are right now for half of the band, it’ll be obvious to the fans, too.” 

“How the fuck are we meant to act like a loved up couple when I get pissed off just looking at him?” Louis snipes, and as if to prove it, doesn’t make a single move to look at Harry. 

“Why do you have to be such a dick?” Harry retorts.

“ _What did I say?_ ” Niall almost shouts, effectively shutting the two up. 

“Clearly… It's going to be hard,” Jane speaks up for the first time, deciding Eddie can’t handle the group on his own. She gives Harry a stern look, as if to say, _you’re not helping things._ Harry looks down, embarrassed like a child being reprimanded by his mother. “We won’t make you do anything over the top. But this way, you can work on your issues privately, without anyone speculating about breakups, dramas, fights, feuds… what have you. Without anyone clicking to what is actually going on.” 

Harry is silent, eyes glazing over at the thought of it. The truth is, his stomach is turning over. He feels like he might be sick. He wishes nobody was looking at him right now for answers. The truth is, he wants to yell at Louis, and he wants to leave this situation, and never look back. But he also knows this might be their only chance to figure out how to not hate each other for longer than ten minutes. They have already wasted years of opportunities to mend things, to talk it out, try and be civil for once. Harry just assumed it would always be like this with Louis. Maybe it doesn’t have to be. 

“You’re actually considering it,” Louis states, staring at Harry with incredulity. Harry snaps out of his daze to stare back. 

The two of them just eye one another fixedly, the rest of the room holding their breath. Sometimes Harry thinks that if they look at each other long enough, all the years and the hurting and the things they said and didn’t mean (or worse, did) could just fall away. And that’s honestly scarier than everything else - scarier than Louis yelling at him, scarier than what’s waiting for them in the press. Because if they could just look at each other, really _look_ , then maybe Louis would see Harry as more than the person who broke his heart and maybe Harry could see Louis as the eighteen-year-old boy he fell in love with. And if they could handle that, then maybe for the first time since 2016, they might have a chance. 

Harry nods minutely. 

“Yeah, I am,” he says. When Louis doesn’t look furious, Harry dares to add, “Aren’t you?” 

“If it’s like Eleanor…” Louis warns, the sentence dissolving into nothing. Harry almost flinches at the name, and Louis swallows deeply at the reaction he’s elicited. 

“If it gets like that, we stop,” Harry says, a rush of confidence flooding his body. “But I think… for everyone’s sake… we have to try.” 

Niall nods eagerly, patting Harry’s leg supportively under the table. Liam sends Louis a soft smile. 

“No contracts,” Louis says abruptly, breaking his eye contact with Harry. “No bloody NDAs or any of that rubbish. We do this our way or not at all, alright?” 

Harry swallows, but his mouth has gone completely dry. Louis agreeing to this, albeit begrudgingly, must be some sort of step in the right direction. Surely it can mean he doesn’t hate Harry as much as he thought he did. Right?

He feels a strange, sick surge of excitement. _Him and Louis._ A couple again. He has to shake the fantastical thought, bring himself back to reality. It isn’t going to be like _that._ Still, he can’t kill the butterflies that have lodged in his belly. 

“Oh! Yes, um, that should be fine -” Eddie stumbles, shuffling his papers. Jane gives Harry a sympathetic look. 

“Good.” Louis grabs his things in a hurry, standing quickly. He takes one lingering moment before glancing at Harry. He says so much in that one look. He _asks_ so much. 

Harry’s butterflies turn vicious, his stomach churning with nerves. He nods in response. _Yes,_ he says with his eyes. _We can do this._

Louis gives a curt nod, turns, then walks out the conference room. 

“Well,” Harry cuts through the silence, looking between the people left in the awkward wake of what just happened. The sound of his own voice in the space feels alien. “That went well.” 

After, Harry returns to his car. The sky has darkened considerably, and the blanket of gloom on the London cityscape adds to his bleak mood. He drives home without music, his thoughts too distracting to enjoy anything right now. Louis’ disgusted face burnt into his brain, and his cruel words repeated. He cannot believe, after all this time, Louis still harbours such anger for him. Seeing Louis like that, makes it feel raw. Like the day he left was just yesterday. 

_How the fuck are they going to pull this off?_

He holds it in, for as long as humanly possible. He practically has to hold his breath in the last few minutes of the journey. The second he unlocks his front door, and steps over the threshold into his darkened hallway, he loses it. All his adrenaline fizzled out, all control abandoned, Harry lets out a shaky sob. 


	4. Now You Know

“I’m not going to lie,” Gemma says through Harry’s AirPods, cynical as ever. “This sounds like a disaster in the making.”

Harry can’t help but laugh, albeit a puffy kind, as he runs on his treadmill. “You’re telling me.” 

“How is this going to work exactly? The same as all those models?” He can practically see her scrunching up her nose in distaste. Gemma has always been Harry’s biggest protector, aside from his mother, when it comes to ‘showmances’. 

“Kind of, I guess,” Harry huffs, swiping away a layer of sweat from his brow. The machine beeps as it goes a level up. He quickens his strides to match the pace. “We’ve got to be seen together by photographers,” he gulps, feeling the burn in his chest from running and talking at the same time. “An official statement is being released sometime this week, too.” 

“This is so bizarre, H.” Gemma’s voice distorts through the microphone a little. “After all the crap you dealt with when you were actually together, now you’re supposed to just flaunt this perfect relationship?” 

Harry laughs coldly, feeling his body reaching his limit. He does a final few strides before turning off the treadmill. Breathing heavily, he steps off the machine. “It’s ironic, I’m aware.” 

“More like a cosmic joke, really,” Gemma says. “Is there a word for this kind of bearding?” she pauses. “Shaving?” 

Harry lets out a genuine bark of laughter. “Oh God, Gem,” he sits down on one of the benches overlooking the London skyline. “I could handle all that if Louis and I were actually… I don’t know, friends, at least.”

“Oh, Harry,” Gemma says, her voice softening. “Well, I mean, maybe this is good then. Fucking insane, don’t get me wrong... but good?” 

“Maybe.” Harry runs his hands down his face, letting out a deep sigh. “What if…” he begins, swallowing hard. “But what if it doesn’t work? What if he still hates me after this?” 

“Then he’s more of an idiot than I thought,” Gemma concedes. “Look,” she begins, her big sister instincts kicking in. “You know I love Louis. You two had something really wonderful,” Harry closes his eyes, willing away the emotions those words produce. “It’s awful the way it ended. I hated seeing you like that. But it’s been years. You’ve both got to live with what happened.” 

“Ugh,” Harry groans. “You make it sound so easy. But when I’m around him, he drives me mental.” 

Gemma is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. “Harry…”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to ask you this once, okay? And don’t be mad.”

“Alright…” Harry says, uncertain.

“Do you think there’s something… _still there_ with Louis?”

“What?” Harry snaps, rising from his seat. 

“I said don’t be mad!” Gemma whines. 

“I’m not mad!” Harry says loudly, then clearing his throat and repeating calmer, lowering his voice, “I’m not mad.” 

“Well, I _just_ think… you’ve not really dated seriously since him. And the way you talk about him, even now.”

“I said he drives me crazy. That’s not exactly a good thing, Gem.” 

“He drove you mad back then, too! Sometimes that’s what love feels like. You just don’t want to remember.” Gemma counters. “I’m sorry I asked. I just want to know where your head’s at. I don’t want you doing this if you could get hurt.” 

“No, no…” Harry frowns to himself. “It’s okay. You’re right to ask.” He thinks carefully about what he’s going to say. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it. Over the years, there were multiple times Harry felt that dawning dread of realisation that maybe Louis was his one chance. That they were _it_ , and he’d fucked it all up. At one point, Harry thought they would marry, for fuck sake. But then he’d force himself to remember how awful it got at the end, and how cruel Louis could be during the times they saw one another post-breakup. If something was still there, then why did they make each other so furious? If something was still there, why hadn’t they spoken in so long? 

“Honestly, I…. I just don’t want to fight him anymore,” Harry admitted. “And maybe this is the way to do that, I don’t know,” he shakes his head. “It’s all so confusing.” 

“Alright, H…” Gemma sounds gentle. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

* * *

A statement is released an exact week to the day after the video leaked. It’s swift and to the point, claiming the couple would like ‘respect for their privacy’, and that they are ‘grateful to the fans for their continued love and support’. While some of the intentions are true, Harry can’t overlook the fact that it’s a lie. 

Neither Harry nor Louis are expected to personally comment on it, and so they don’t, at least not directly. They do follow one another on social media, though. An hour after the public announcement, Louis posted a selfie on Instagram with the vague caption ‘good day !’. Harry debates back and forth for far too long whether to like it or not. In the end, he does and quickly exits out of the app. He figures he should probably say something too, especially since his last tweet that wasn’t promotional was an accident (he will never live down ‘Do’). He decides on a simple, ‘Thanks for all the love. H’ and watches as his replies flood in. 

He promised Jane that he’d be a bit more present on social media, even as just a wallflower, so he _tries_. He reads through comments, mostly supportive, most people claiming they knew it all along. A lot of his DMs are full of Larry shippers, which he knew would happen, and he’s okay with that, but it doesn’t stop it from feeling weird. When they were in the band, these sort of messages had comforted them both; presenting as one way and still having fans say: ‘hey, we see you. We know the real you, and it’s okay.’ In a way, the fans were what made hiding easier. And harder, because the more they caught on, the more Harry and Louis had to monitor their interactions. 

Right now, though, the support is peculiar to read, because Harry sort of thought he’d go to his grave with this stuff. There was no reason for them to ever announce they’d been together after breaking up, it would only dredge up old arguments and open old wounds. To know the truth, and see people applaud him for being brave, feels fraudulent. But at the same time, he and Louis did love one another once. They really did struggle in the closet together for five years. 

Some people are furious, which Harry expected. There’s the occasional homophobic slur, which he blocks whenever he sees. Others are analysing interactions between Louis and Harry over the last several years as evidence that they knew all along, and Harry admires their dedication, even if they’re sort of wrong. Fans seem to be in three distinct categories: those who expected this, from day one, and thus are over the moon, those who are blindsided and a little pissed, and those who are trying to figure out if this is fake or not. The conspiracists have all sorts of inappropriate things to say under Harry’s pictures, piecing together his public relationships with Camille Rowe and Kendall Jenner and proving that Harry and Louis haven’t even been seen together in years. Those comments make Harry nervous. Not because he ever really dated those women, but because if anyone were to try hard enough, they’d see Louis and Harry genuinely haven’t been in one another’s orbits for a long time. Luckily, they’re in the minority, and drowned out by comments like: are you the top or bottom? Which, when Harry sees, makes his eyebrows go halfway up his forehead. He decides then and there he’s had enough fan engagement for one day. 

Harry prepares for the first photoshoot by pretending it isn’t happening. He’s sure there are healthier alternatives, and his therapist probably wouldn’t condone this, but this is what he’s doing nonetheless.

He throws himself into writing, fine-tuning songs for his upcoming album. The best part of writing solo is _time._ He can’t get enough of it. Almost feels like a successful musician’s gap year. He can haul himself up in his room for weeks at a time and nobody can stop him. Or, he can just doodle notes in the margins of his planner on the train, in the back of the car, at the London Museum, anywhere the inspiration may strike. It’s so completely different from the time in the band when they used to write rushed into the late hours on the road. 

Already, he’s released the video for ‘Lights Up’ earlier in the month. In total, he thinks seven of the forty-five songs he’s written in the last year and a half will make it on the album. Which means there’s still a way to go. He’s happy about an upbeat number called ‘Watermelon Sugar’, but it’s missing trumpets. He makes a note to talk to Mitch about the musical addition.

He’s so nervous he changes his outfit three times before thinking perhaps he’s overthinking things. In the end, he settles for a kitsch graphic t-shirt and linen trousers. He messes with his hair, which by the way, he never does much to it on a regular day. Now, for some reason, it feels deeply important to get his side fringe just right. His mum would say he’s brooding, but Harry is sure it’s perfectly normal. Maybe. 

“What am I doing?” Harry mumbles to his reflection after a solid ten minutes of fiddling with his hair as only resulted in rising frustration. He huffs, shakes his head and admits defeat. 

The plan is to meet Louis someplace low key, where they’re not likely to be inundated by fans, but that being photographed by the papers doesn’t appear orchestrated. It also has to be neutral ground, so that there’s no way either one of them feels any more uncomfortable than they already do. 

In the end, they settled on the Columbia Road flower market. In part, because they used to go as a couple, often (though neither has mentioned this to the other), and because it’s a place mostly for locals. If they’re recognised, usually people are respectful enough not to gawk. A few witnesses is actually a good thing. The more people they have to validate their relationship, the easier it’ll be. 

Harry tries to be incognito, to a degree, with a hat and sunglasses. He doesn’t look like a wanker doing this because thankfully, it’s one of those rare days in London where the clouds have parted long enough for the sun to shine down, soak into the ground and warm everything ever so slightly.

He parks his car down a backstreet slightly out of the way and makes the rest of the trip by foot. He can see, sort of, why Louis moved to the East End. It has its charm. They almost considered a place near Columbia road when they were looking to buy, but settled on the Hampstead Heath area because it afforded just that added security and privacy. 

On his walk Harry makes note of what Tower Hamlets has to offer; quaint pubs with pots of plants adorning windows, boutique vintage shops, organic food supplies, winding roads, brilliantly coloured accents (a bright yellow door catches his eye, buttercup like his flares), and then, finally, he can make out the bunting that signals the entrance to the market. 

It’s half-past nine in the morning, and already there are loads of people milling about the flower stalls. Harry almost doesn’t bother scanning the crowd at the top of the street for Louis, because he figures he’ll be late, but then a mop of chestnut hair and tan features catches his eye. 

His stomach churns with dread, a little peeved that the one time he would have actually preferred Louis be late, he’s on time. Now he has only a few seconds it takes to stride over to collect himself.

Louis is idling scrolling through his phone when Harry reaches him, and he towers over him for a moment before clearing his throat. Louis looks up in surprise, nearly jumping.

“Jesus, Harry,” he curses, “Personal space?” 

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, making a point of stepping backward. 

Louis shoves his phone in his back pocket, bites his lip. He gives Harry a once over, but his features are unreadable. 

“Apt choice,” Harry nods in a gesture to Louis’ t-shirt. It’s the rainbow Apple symbol one he’s had for years. He only wore it out in public once, if Harry remembers correctly because it caused such a stir. 

But Harry associates the top with sleepy Sunday mornings in bed, knickers and nothing else. He tries to ignore that particular memory.

“You too.” Louis nods at Harry’s Keith Haring shirt. When Harry doesn’t respond, Louis adds, “Showtime, I suppose, eh?” 

“Guess so,” Harry agrees.

“Find your way alright?” Louis asks, expertly swerving in and out of clumps of people. 

“Yeah, easy enough. Yourself?”

“Walked here. Not far from mine.”

Harry nods, looking ahead at the rows and rows of stalls either side of the street. Buckets line the sidewalk, bursting with roses, hydrangeas, and lilies. Bright pink Chrysanthemums, potted pansies and delicate dahlias. Harry has to fight the urge to stick his nose into every flower to better identify which scent is coming from what. They’re mixing in the air, creating a thick floral aroma.

“It’s been mad, hasn’t it?” Louis pipes up, not looking at Harry and eyeing the flowers as well. “The response.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, watching Louis as he confidentially makes his way through the crowd. Even though he’s about half a head shorter than most, people part like the Red Sea for him. 

“I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

Louis lets out a laugh. “Easier said than done, though, innit?” 

“Suppose,” Harry’s shoulder brushes Louis’ as they walk further into the market, where there’s more densely populated. “Sorry,” he mumbles, but Louis doesn’t seem to even notice. 

All sorts of people have turned out for the market, families, middle-aged and the elderly. A woman holds a toddler on her hip, sorting through for the best bouquet. Flower vendors shout deals overhead, ten quid for a bunch of roses, a fiver for daisies. 

It’s so crowded most people can’t see beyond their own feet, but the pair of them get the occasional glance or double-take. As Harry expected, nobody stops them, and nobody follows them. 

“How are you taking it?” Harry says, feeling courageous. Louis seems to be in a more amicable mood today. “Being out.”

Louis scrunches his nose. “S’alright,” he accidentally bumps into a young woman and he gently touches her back saying, “Sorry, love didn’t see you there.” They continue walking until there’s a bit of congestion. Louis gets on his tiptoes, craning his neck to see what the hold up is. “Would’ve liked to have done it differently, but relieved, too, I guess.” He looks at Harry, smiling sadly. “People’ve been proper great, actually.”

Harry smiles. “M’glad.” 

Coming out was always a big deal for them as a couple, but it always seemed even more so to Louis. Harry figured out he was bisexual when they met, and he developed feelings for Louis so strong he couldn’t pass it off as anything else. Louis, on the other hand, knew he was gay for years before auditioning for the X-Factor. It was a conversation they’d had times over; how, when, in what way would they announce their relationship to the public. 

Harry always favoured something lowkey; he’s a private person - regardless of his sexuality, and he wanted the music to speak for itself, not be shrouded in gossip about his love life. Louis, although he agreed, took a much more confrontational approach. He felt it was also their responsibility to be as open and candid about their struggles as possible. He didn’t want to come out unless it meant telling the whole truth - about the bearding, the homophobic management, the heterosexual grooming. Harry always admired that. Eventually, they agreed that losing the battle would mean in the end, that they’d win the war. Or so they thought, anyway. 

When they broke up, Harry didn’t have the fight in him without having someone like Louis by his side. What was the point of hiding any longer if he had no one to wait it out with? If he didn’t have Louis to remind him, every day, that they were waiting for their moment? So, Harry came out flippantly - first by writing a song that alluded to it, and then by confirming it on a whim in an interview. 

Louis never did, though. Harry knows, even now, that’s his prerogative. Watching him now, Harry wants to know so desperately if he’s actually okay. He wants to know why Louis didn’t come out when the band dissolved when they cut ties with Modest! Management. He wants to know what’s been holding him back. But Harry is so painfully aware he lost the right to know personal things like that a long time ago. 

“Bloody hell,” Louis curses when they encounter yet another standstill in foot traffic. “Was it always this busy when we used to go?”

Harry’s heart stutters. This is the first time Louis has ever said anything about their relationship without venom. He chooses his words carefully, knowing if he says one word out of line, they’ll be back to bickering quarrels. 

He pouts as if he’s deeply contemplative. “Yes,” he says, and Louis lets out a breathy laugh. “Maybe you’ve got rose coloured glasses ‘bout it,” 

Louis narrows his eyes, smirking. “See what you did there,” he waggles his pointer finger. “ _Ha-ha_ ,” 

The crowd disperses some, enough for Louis and Harry to amble at their own pace through the market. They chat back and forth, and Harry begins to relax, feeling the way their natural rapport seeps into the air around them. Harry begins to wonder why he was so nervous about today in the first place.

Up ahead, there’s a tarp, under which buckets full of fresh sunflowers sit waiting to be purchased. As they approach, Harry digs into his trouser pocket, pulling out some change. He gives the vendor the money, enough to purchase a single long-stemmed sunflower. He scans the hundreds of yellow flower heads and picks the biggest and brightest of the lot. He turns and hands it to Louis, who, having watched the whole exchange behind Harry’s back, is scrutinising him with a piercing blue gaze. 

“They’re your favourite, aren’t they?” Harry asks, doubting himself. Maybe he should have asked first. Maybe Louis hates sunflowers now. 

“Y-yeah,” Louis stutters, looking stunned. “Yes, they are. Thanks.” He takes the long stem between his fingers, holding the flower close to his chest. Harry swears he can see a hint of rouge on his cheeks. Louis clears his throat, ducking his head. “Matches your nails,” 

Harry holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers, admiring his sunny nail polish. “So it does,” he agrees, smiling. 

“You do those yourself?” Louis asks, and he looks almost shy. He’s _trying._ It means the world to Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry says, “I love it. I change the colour nearly every week.” He beams, proud of himself. “Honestly feel naked without ‘em.” 

Louis watches him, a strange look on his face. It’s one of those moments Harry wishes he could read his mind. 

“What?” Harry asks, self-conscious.

“Nothin’.” Louis mumbles. 

Harry knows, somewhere in the distance, there’s a photographer capturing every intimate and vulnerable moment right now. But somehow, that feels less exposing than the way Louis has been looking at him. 

Louis strides off ahead and is immediately lost in the crowd. Before Harry can figure out whether he should follow, Louis skips back over with a single violet, grinning ear to ear. 

“Did you -” Harry begins, frowning. He brings his finger to his mouth, pausing. “Did you _steal_ that?”

“No comment,” Louis smirks, leaning up and placing the flower at Harry’s ear. “There. Perfect.” 

Harry blushes, and when Louis turns his back on him, he gently raises his hand to feel for the flower in his hair. He suddenly feels very fond of violets. 

They continue through the market, getting the occasional stare, and even stopping to take a picture with a vendor who then gave them free chocolate crepes. Both of them ate contentedly, meandering in and out of the stalls, occasionally going off the beaten track to peek inside a bookshop or vintage wares store. 

When they’re stopped again, by a shaking preteen girl with her phone in their face, Harry smiles and plays the part. He even risks a gentle palm on Louis’ back. For the photos, of course. 

“Should’ve known you’d be good at this,” Louis says flippantly, once they’re alone again. He says it in a way that maybe Harry can let slide. It’s almost a joke. Almost. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry frowns deeply, looking across at Louis. 

“Whatever,” Louis flicks his hair out of his eyes with a jerk of his head.

Harry stops walking, and Louis takes a few steps before realising. He turns to see Harry’s stony expression. 

“No. Please enlighten me,” he says. 

Louis folds his arms across his chest, looking awkward. “You know. _This._ ” 

Harry raises his eyebrows in question. 

“The whole,” Louis gestures wildly with his hands between them. “ _Thing_. Puttin’ on a show.” 

“Right.” Harry blinks, then walks off. Louis rushes to catch up. 

“Y’know what I mean, Jesus,” he says, shaking his head. “I was never good at it. You are.”

“Which means… what, exactly? That I’m a better liar?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You do know how to twist me words, don’t ya?” 

“Don’t know what else you could’ve meant, Louis,” Harry says as he continues to walk faster than he knows Louis can match with his shorter legs. The pair of them have already reached the end of Columbia Road, and thus the tail end of the market. 

“Take me hand,” Louis says suddenly, eyes darting. 

“What?” Harry asks, incredulously. “Are you serious?” 

“There’s a pap over there,” Louis gives a subtle nod in gesture to the photographer across the road, “Quit making a fuss and take me hand.”

Harry glares at Louis, then, realising he’s right, begrudgingly takes Louis’ hand in his. The physical contact sends a jolt up Harry’s arm, causing goosebumps on his skin. 

“Your hand is sweaty,” Louis crinkles his nose in distaste, bringing Harry back to reality. 

“It’s called moisturiser. Wouldn’t kill you to try it.” 

“You calling my hands dry?” Louis’ voice goes up an octave.

“You’re unbelievable.” Harry shakes his head, looking anywhere but Louis so his anger won’t show on his face. “You really can’t go five seconds without making a scene.”

“Dickhead,” Louis says under his breath.

“Wanker,” Harry counters, not once dropping his pleasant facade for the cameras. Louis’ grip tightens around Harry’s fingers. “D’ya have to look miserable holding my hand?” Harry says under his breath, eying the grumpy expression on Louis’ face. 

“Well, if you must know,” Louis says, “It’s actually uncomfortable, what with the millions of rings and all.”

Harry lets out a loud sigh. “Okay, Louis.” He says, placating. 

Louis ignores him, staring off wistfully. “You don’t wear the rose ring anymore.” 

“I lost it,” Harry admits quietly. 

He remembers it well. It was in New York while promoting the release of _Dunkirk_. The ring was chunky and heavy and began feeling loose on his ring finger. He changed it over to another finger, thinking it was probably best he no longer wear it on that finger anyway. He went out with a few of the cast and crew and at some point in the night, while completely pissed (making jokes about being ‘Drunkirk’, which he’s still proud of to this day), he realised the ring was no longer on his hand. At the time, he played it off, laughed that it cost him a fortune (not that he’d know, Louis bought it) and pretended he was fine. When he got back to his hotel room hours later, still ringless, he cried himself to sleep. It wasn’t the ring, really, that he felt he lost. It was the last little bit of Louis. 

Louis flicks his gaze to Harry’s, surprised. “Thought that was just a bullshit story for the press.”

“No,” Harry says, affronted. “I really did lose it.” 

“Oh,” Louis nods to himself. Harry wonders how many articles he’s read about him, how many stories he had to sort truth from fiction. They used to laugh about how the tabloids got things wrong, and now look where they are. 

Harry can see the pap in the corner of his eye, snapping silently, trying to get every angle. He wonders what his face is revealing right now. 

“I wouldn’t have...” he begins, feeling Louis’ hand slacken slightly. The nuances of a single grip feel insurmountable. “Let me rephrase,” he looks at Louis intently. They may fight, they may bicker, they may on some days truly hate one another. But Harry would never undermine what they had together. Not for as long as he lives. And the rose ring, which Louis gave Harry on their fifth anniversary, promising to replace it with an engagement ring when he could, meant more to Harry than even Louis could know. “That ring meant a lot to me. I wore it still, every day. I wouldn’t have stopped.” 

Louis goes quiet, restless almost. He fiddles with the sunflower, twisting it in circles between his thumb and forefinger. “Got it.” He says finally with a nod. “Just askin’” 

“Well, now you know.” 

Louis looks at him, not a trace of anger left. “Now I know.”

The photographer takes a few more photos, before putting down the camera. Apparently satisfied, he shoots Harry and Louis a thumbs up and begins packing up his equipment. 

“Uh, Harry?” Louis says, his voice scratchy. “You can let go of me hand now.” 

“What? Oh, shit, right.” Harry immediately jerks his hand away, flexing it at the loss of the warm pressure Louis’ hand provided. His fingertips are tingling from the absence, and he shoves his hand into his trouser pocket, hoping Louis doesn’t notice. 

Later, when Louis and Harry go their separate ways for the afternoon, Harry lays in bed absorbed in the silence. In the dark his eyes adjust slowly, his surroundings are in shadow but not a total abyss. He can see the light leaking through the crack in his curtains, can hear the clock taunting him as time moves slowly. Thinking of the day, Harry stares at the small violet sitting atop his bedside table. Deprived of water and sunlight, it’s shrivelled to a sad, wilting puddle of purple. Harry thinks, after today, everything has changed. He won’t ever look at violets the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a delay between chapters. I think once a fortnight will have to be my updating schedule from now on because I'm struggling to keep up the pace with all the craziness going on in the world. I'm still several chapters ahead in writing though, so don't worry! 
> 
> Also, a side note, some canon things are changed around for the purpose of the story. Harry's Fine Line won't be released in December for example, but some time after the timeline of the story. If any of this is confusing, then shoot me a message over at harryrainbows on Tumblr!
> 
> References
> 
> ★ Harry owns a [Keith Haring shirt](https://www.pride.com/sites/www.pride.com/files/harry-styles.jpg)  
> ★ Louis owns [the rainbow apple shirt](https://static.independent.co.uk/s3fs-public/thumbnails/image/2014/11/09/16/Louis-Tomlinson-Rexv4.jpg?w968h681).  
> ★ Harry did have a [Rose ring](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/26/c1/5f/26c15f06257fb1b32ec5b4616520926c.jpg) that the fandom [theorised](https://pics.me.me/scroll-basically-to-summarize-all-this-harry-was-seen-with-15647869.png) was Larry related.  
> ★ He [lost it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lnRv9YPCTuo) at an Ariana Grande concert in 2017.  
> ★ Columbia Road Flower Market is a [beautiful](https://media.timeout.com/images/100683577/630/472/image.jpg) [market](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b8/61/69/b861697f64e93060916cab6bd43e7f59.jpg) on Sundays in Hackney. It does get [insanely busy](https://notanomadblog.com/media/640/images/travel/london/columbia-road-flower-market-sunflowers.jpg) (first-hand experience!!!)


	5. Fat House Cats and Staged Photos

Sarah is lighting the fireplace, chatting away, while Mitch sets the table for dinner. Harry, delegated to the couch, pats their enormous tabby cat.

“Is it just me or is she bigger than normal cat size?” He asks, admiring the way the cat arches her back when he touches her. She’s heavy, too, kneading his thighs with her claws. 

Mitch snickers to himself, continuing the placement of cutlery. Harry tries, every time he visits, to help prepare whatever they’re eating, but Sarah and Mitch are intense hosts. They’re actually offended by the idea that they need help. Harry stopped trying after a month of them living together. 

Sarah laughs, her back facing him as she answers, “We feed her too much. We’re terrible parents.”

“Ah,” Harry says as if that explains everything. 

“Who can say no to that face?” Sarah turns around, the fire small behind her, but growing steadily. The living room fills with a soft glow, amber tinting everything. 

Harry gives the cat a gentle chin rub, her eyes closing with content. She lets out a guttural purr when Harry scratches her behind the ear.

“I see what you mean.” He says, nodding sagely. “She’s very charming.” 

“Someone’s smitten,” Mitch comments, the drawl of his American accent always a little jarring in Harry’s London life. 

“If Ziggy goes missing, we’ll know who the culprit is.” Sarah smiles between Mitch and Harry.

“I can see the headlines now,” Harry says, starry-eyed. “International superstar Harry Styles: Cat Burglar!” 

“ _Speaking_ of headlines...” Sarah interjects, voice raising in question. She very rarely humours his at best, mediocre puns. Instead, she gives him a pointed look. 

“We're just going to ignore how good that pun was?” Harry asks, pouting. The couple gives him matching pointed glares, and Harry is reminded yet again, how good they are for each other. 

“Nice Segway, Sare.” Mitch snorts, and Sarah gives him a playful jab. 

Harry laughs, joining them at the table. Mitch leaves the room, probably to get their dinner, but the timing is typical. Even amongst his closest friend and girlfriend, he is a man of few words. 

“So,” Sarah sighs, leaning across the table from Harry. “How’re things?” 

“Just come out and say it, SJ,” he sighs, tired but ready to talk about it.

“Louis Tomlinson and you.” 

“Correct.” 

“But you split up, obviously,” Sarah confirms, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. The information she’s learnt from becoming close with Harry over the years, versus what she’s learnt in the news.

“Obviously.” Harry nods. 

“And now... everyone thinks...”

“Pretty much.” Harry finishes for her.

“Mental.” She concludes softly, almost in awe. “You know, I didn’t even know what Larry Stylinson was,” she lets out a gentle laugh. “And you know Mitch, hadn’t even heard of One Direction before we started working together.” Harry laughs now, thinking back to their awkward first meeting. “We had to google it,” she cringes, covering her face. “Some ... interesting things came up.”

“Oh, God,” Harry winces. “I should have warned you.” 

Sarah shakes her head, the laughter subsiding. It’s a few quiet seconds before she asks, tentatively, “Why didn’t you tell us?” Her voice is so gentle against the backdrop of the flickering fireplace that if it weren’t such a serious conversation, and maybe if he had a bit more to drink, Harry could be lulled into sleep. 

Harry thinks about it a moment. “By the time we met, I hadn’t seen him in so long. I mean, if it came up I wouldn't have denied it. It just felt... It felt weird, not relevant.”

Sarah nods. “I get it.” She pauses. “But H, when Mitch and I started dating...” she trails off, fretful. 

Harry shakes his head, “You’re sweet, but it wasn’t like that. I was always happy for you both.” He can say, hand on heart, that has always been the case. It isn’t to say it wasn’t slightly hard to watch two people in a band flirt, begin spending all their time together and eventually find love, all in the open. It reminded Harry of hard memories, but Mitch was his friend, and now so is Sarah. He's glad they found one another. “Me and Louis are different people. We had different problems.”

She nods. “I’m sorry. That it didn’t work out. The entire time I’ve known you I just thought you were happily single. I wonder now if that wasn’t the case.”

Harry chews his lip. “I don’t know, really. I mean… I thought I was going to marry him, once. So, when you go from that…” his eyes glaze over. “To nothing,” he refocuses to see Sarah watching him sympathetically. “It can be… weird. Like you’ve lost a limb. I don’t know.” 

“I can’t imagine,” Sarah says, pained. “You’re too good at hiding these things, H. You don’t have to deal with this on your own, you know.”

Harry squirms under her sincere gaze. “That’s what my therapist is for.” He jokes, but Sarah won’t allow him to make light. 

“I’m serious. If you need to talk, we are here. You know that right?”

“Yeah, I do. Thanks, Sare.”

Mitch returns, and the conversation shifts slightly. Through mouthfuls of pasta, the three friends chat animatedly, sharing anecdotes, laughing over one another. It’s so good that Harry wonders why he avoided seeing them since the news broke of the video. The red wine refills too many times, the cat curls up on the hearth, and the fire almost totally fizzles out. And Harry knows Mitch and Sarah would never judge him, never hold it against him for keeping something to himself. 

***

Harry is fresh out of the shower when the photos drop online. He debates for longer than he should whether he’ll look at them. But in the end, he knows he won’t be able to avoid them. 

There’s a cinematic quality to the photos, even if Harry and Louis don’t look so happy. The sun hits Louis’ face in such a way that his skin glows, and Harry’s hair looks deliberately ruffled for once, the small flower sticking out from behind his ear. 

The people in the background are a blur of colour, and the flowers surrounding them make for a perfect backdrop. There’s an air of spontaneity in the movement of the images: the two of them walking slightly out of step with one another. In some of the shots, they’re clearly chatting, and in others simply admiring the market stalls. The photographer, who was set up toward the end of the market, didn’t capture Harry purchasing Louis a flower, but because Louis is holding it in every photo, it wouldn’t be hard to connect the dots. 

The unease between them is perhaps less evident than Harry was expecting. But the real kicker is the series of shots after they begin holding hands. Harry almost doesn’t want to even look at them. It’s so clear they’re arguing, by the furrow of Harry’s brow, and the upturned curl of Louis’ lip, mid-sentence. He can almost hear his high Yorkshire accent in the freeze-frame. If it weren’t for the fact that they’re grasping hands so tightly, Harry would think this photo would fit perfectly under a headline about sworn enemies. 

“God, Harry. You’d think you two were on your way to a funeral.” Jane’s tired voice through the speakerphone is evident. 

“You’re being dramatic,” Harry replies, placing the phone on the windowsill as he begins spritzing his indoor plants. 

“Maybe, but the photos aren’t good.”

Harry groans. “You should be glad we aren’t openly yelling at one another.” 

“That’s not what I want to hear.” Jane’s voice goes down an octave. 

“What can I say? We barely know each other anymore,” Harry’s heart hurts to admit it, but it’s true. “It looks awkward because it _was_ awkward.”

“So make it not awkward.” 

“How am I supposed to do that?” Harry stops watering, stares out his window. Hampstead Heath is always beautiful this time of year, the winding roads covered in orange and red leaves. 

“I don’t know! But whatever you’re doing right now, isn’t working. Do something fun together. Something away from the public eye. Make it just about the two of you.” Jane pauses. “Luckily some of the fans you ran into posted smiling pictures and reported good things. But you can’t keep letting the fans do all the work for you.”

“I know. Look, it’s the first time we’ve done this. I’m sure it’ll be better next time.”

“Remember why we’re doing this, okay? I’m sorry I’m being hard on you. Think of it as a trial run for the real deal. The One Direction reunion will be just like this, but so much harder, because it’ll be _live_ every night. We need to get you two to a place where you can perform together and make it believable.”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry.” Harry’s eyes glaze over, directed at a prayer plant wilting under the harsh sunlight. He frowns, his concerned maternal instincts kicking in, and he picks it up by its potted base and moves it into the shade.

“I’m Harry Styles’ manager. It’s literally in my job description to worry.”

Harry laughs, shaking his head. “ _Heyyyyy,_ ” he complains.

“Oh, and people have picked up on the fact that Columbia road is close to Louis’ place. Which means you’re going to have to stick to that side of town from now on. At least if you’re going out in public often. People will see through this whole thing the second they realise you aren’t living together.”

Harry huffs. It appears that with all that has been on his mind, he’s been neglecting his plant children. The row of fig leaves are burnt on the ends, and only the Lady Palm appears to be thriving under his irresponsible approach to parenting. He thinks of all the times over the past weeks he could have been checking on them, and instead, fretted over his ex. “Damn it, Louis you’re making me kill my plants.” He mutters to himself. 

“What?” Jane asks, incredulous.

“Nothing,” He shakes his head, deciding he’ll deal with this problem later. He puts down the watering can and focuses on Jane. “What am I supposed to do, move in with him?”

“Hey, whatever gets things going.” Jane laughs. “I already spoke to Louis’ manager, and she agrees that even being spotted in the Hackney area is a good start.”

“I’m sure Louis is over the moon about that.” Harry rubs the bridge of his nose, exhausted. 

“You’ll have to ask him. Defeats the purpose of this whole thing if you need a mediator to talk to one another.” 

Harry lets out a sigh. “Got any good news for me?” he laughs, devoid of warmth.

“Well, yes, actually. Interest in the band has skyrocketed since the video leaked. So, even though it was a disaster personally, it’s turning out to be great professionally.” 

“Thank God!” Harry replies, dripping with mock enthusiasm. “At least there’s that.”

“Hey, any publicity is good publicity, right?” Jane coaxes, and Harry has to smile at that, at least. She clears her throat. “But seriously, it’s working. Looking at the numbers, interaction with your brand and One Direction are up by 80 per cent compared to this time last year, which is _insane_. You and Louis are all over Twitter and Instagram, and fan engagement is through the roof. This is _good_ , Harry.”

Harry closes his eyes, nodding. Then, realising Jane can’t see him, he makes a noise of agreement. 

“Just… try and look on the bright side, yeah? You’re getting maximum coverage for minimum work output. Granted, I’d like a _little_ more effort…” he can hear the gentle coaxing in her voice, and can’t help but smile. “But this is so much better than doing press conference after press conference and answering the same interview questions for hours on end, isn’t it? Take this time to focus on your writing. On your friendship with Louis. Anything, as long as it’s productive.” 

“You’re starting to sound like my mum, Jane.” Harry teases, though he sees her point. She’s almost as good as his therapist at talking him down. He’s not going to indulge her ego by telling her that, though. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Anne is a wonderful woman.”

“That she is.” 

“Now bugger off, will you?” She teases, “And be kind to yourself.” 

*** 

Harry wakes up early on an unusually sunny day, already feeling the itch of inspiration under his skin. Images of Louis swam in and out of his dreams the night before, golden and yellow. It’s the first time in years, apart from the odd outlier, that he’s visited in Harry’s sleep. He wonders what that might mean. If it means anything at all. Instead of actively ignoring it, he decides to embrace it.

Pulling on some trousers and a hoodie, Harry gathers his overgrown hair into a messy top knot above his head. When he pulls out the scrunchies, it means he’s in business. And today is no exception.

With a cup of tea he’s unlikely to finish, and the morning light warm on his face, Harry sits out on his back decking, pen and paper in hand, ready to write. It’s not often he’s afforded the luxury of writing in such a tactile way. Usually, he brainstorms with Tom or Mitch, or a team of people from the label. He got so used to writing lyrics and poems in the note section of his phone, that it’s a refreshing change to sit down and write something directly to the paper.

It also might have something to do with the fact that his phone is the only mode of contact he has to Louis Tomlinson. Who he has to reach out to, eventually. And he’s avoiding that. So hand writing a song seems apt, right now. He makes sure to hit record on his voice memo though, before turning his phone face down on the decking beside him, sound off. He does not want to know if he gets a message. Not right now.

Fingers with a mind of their own, Harry doodles a little sunflower and imagines Louis’ hand holding it in the marketplace. He writes next to it: _something to do with sunflowers?_ Biting his lip, he scribbles variations on the use of the flower.

He stares at what he hopes will be a chorus. He mumbles it, under his breath, “ _Sunflower, my mind…_ ” he frowns, “No that’s not it,” he says aloud, crossing out the last word. He hums the tune mid-tempo, then tries again: “ _Sunflower, my eyes… want you more…_ ” he trails off, returning to the page.

He can’t get Columbia road market out of his head, or Louis for that matter. As he writes, he finds a story unfolding. He thinks of the day in the market, and how it felt, in some strange way, like a first date. He thinks of times with Louis when they first met, that swooning, overwhelming new crush feeling. Thinking of being sixteen and eighteen, sharing a single bed in his parent’s house, staying up later than they were supposed to. The way young Harry would embarrass himself endlessly just vying for Louis’ attention. He notes the phrase: _I was just tongue-tied_ , thinking of all mortifying things he must have said in an attempt to flirt with Louis all those years ago. He’s so far removed from those days of kid-like adoration, he hadn’t thought about it in years. It was too hard when it was soured by everything that went wrong between them later. But revisiting it now, the gushing giddiness hits him like it was just yesterday. It still makes his heart swell with affection.

Harry looks at his assorted notes, sings the verse aloud to the tune he’s been working on in his head. 

> _Wondering, headshake_
> 
> _Tired eyes are the death of me_
> 
> _Mouthful of toothpaste_
> 
> _Before I got to know you_
> 
> _I’ve got your face_
> 
> _Hung up high in the gallery_

Try as he might, he can’t keep those memories in a vacuum. What comes after – the love, the hate, the hurting – it’s all still there. It may not be raw like it was at the time, but it follows Harry, wherever he goes. What floods onto the page is an amalgamation of those feelings – old and new – mixing together.

> _Your flowers just died,_
> 
> _Plant new seeds in the melody_
> 
> _Let me inside, I wanna get to know you._

He taps the pen against the paper, staring out at his backyard. He has the urge to garden, to plant and feel the dirt under his nails. But he hasn’t got a green thumb like his Mum, and if his low-maintenance houseplants are anything to go by, the plants would surely die. 

“And then it’s like, lyrics, lyrics, lyrics, bridge, chorus,” he rambles to himself, “ _I don’t want to make you feel bad, but I’ve been trying hard not to act a fool_ ,” he sings from the key C to G. “ _Sunflower, sunflower._ ”

After a solid hour and a half of writing, Harry feels he’s getting somewhere with the sunflower song. The sun is now well and truly hung in the sky, direct light beaming down on him, soaking into his skin. His stomach is beginning to rumble, and his tea, untouched, has gone cold. 

He grabs his phone, unlocks it to turn off voice memos and exits out of the app when his screen flashes with a call. Louis’ name takes over his screen, causing a bolt of panic through him. On impulse, he presses decline.

“Shit.” He stares at the ended call, stunned. He really wasn’t expecting Louis to call.

Before he can psych himself out, he quickly clicks redial and puts the phone on speaker.

“Louis. Hello. It’s Harry.” He says the moment the line connects. He closes his eyes and covers his face, silently cursing his formality. He sounds like a telemarketer.

“Er, yeah, hi. I know. I just called you.” Louis answers, voice textured with static. The sound of him over the phone is so strange – it is familiar and foreign all at once. He wonders absently the last time they did this. Was it a random call, Louis asking to double-check what sort of cheese they need while at Tesco’s? Was it a terse, short conversation between bouts of awkwardness they shared toward the end? Or did one of them crack, after months of estrangement, drunk and vulnerable? He’s ashamed to admit that he did that once, but he was too drunk to recall it even happened by morning, and the only evidence was his incriminating call log. 

Up until he got a new phone, Harry used to listen to Louis’ old voicemails and audio messages, wallowing in self-pity, feeling sorry for himself. He’d sit on the couch, TV muted, way past his bedtime, and replay a rambling message of Louis telling him about his day, or a short voice call when Louis was out clubbing and just wanted to call Harry to tell him he missed up. Some of them were dirty, and when he came across them, Harry’d turn pink and quickly skip them. They were nowhere near as painful as the romantic ones though, where Louis called him Hazza and blew kisses into the mic. 

“Yes,” Harry says, squinting off into the garden, finding a blade of grass to focus on. Hearing Louis’ voice now, cuts across those memories with a blade. “I hung up by mistake.” 

“... that’s okay, mate.”

“Anyway, Uhm, so.... you called.” Harry stumbles, going red. He stands up, suddenly full of nervous energy. He wants to pace back and forth, he wants to do a cartwheel. Anything to expel the electricity in his veins.

“Yep.” 

“And I am calling now.” 

“What was that?” Louis asks, and Harry can practically picture his eyes squinting in confusion. “Are you away from the phone? I can’t quite hear you.” 

Harry nearly trips over his feet in an effort to get back to sitting on the stoop, by the phone. He grabs it and turns off speaker, bringing the phone to his ear. “No, yeah, sorry. I’m here. Is that better?”

“Oh, yeah, loads. Thanks. So, I just called because I spoke to me manager and she’s not happy with the photos. Reckons they look staged. Which they are, but whatever.”

Harry bites his lower lip, and for the first time, he wants to chip away at his nail polish, anything to distract from his nerves.

“Point is, might be a good idea to be a bit more prepared before the next photoshoot. Are you free some time to come over?”

“Wh-what, like _now_?” Harry’s eyes go wide, and he feels every bit the way he did before their first date. He feels sixteen again.

Louis laughs nervously. “Uh, no... I was thinking more like in the next couple days.”

“Oh, right. Yes.” he closes his eyes, lingering, then opens them again. 

“Yes...?” Louis prompts. 

“Yes! I’m free. I can come over.” 

“Sick. Okay. I’ll text you the details.”

“Perfent.” Harry says in a tumble of words. He freezes, can hear Louis’ silence on the other line. “I, er, meant to say perfect and tried to say excellent at the same time.” 

Louis humours him with a short laugh. “Alright. Take care, Harry.” 

“Take care...” Harry is too slow to answer, Louis already hanging up. He stares down at the ended call, and a flush of embarrassment runs through him. 

The notebook sits in wait beside him, the words he scribbled just an hour ago taunting him on the page: _I was just tongue-tied_. He was foolish to think these idiocies are a thing of the past. Time did not make a man of him, not when Louis Tomlinson can so easily bring that all down in a matter of seconds. How is it he’s grown, twenty-five years old, and he can’t even hold a solid conversation on the phone with his ex? Deep down, he knows it is more than the simple sum of ex-lovers, and more to do with the specifies of the man in question. Louis made Harry a fumbling mess, an awkward, eager boy. Time isn’t going to change that. 

He picks up the page, and corrects the lyric, writing beneath: _I’m still tongue-tied._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter is a bit of a mess. It needed a lot of work, but also wasn't Beta read or edited, so only I could make changes, and I can't always see what needs to be fixed... so... I hope it's alright. Also, I've updated the estimate on chapters - should end up being 14 chapters, roughly 60k in total (I think, I THINK!). 
> 
> Thank you!!
> 
> References:
> 
> ★ Mitch and Sarah are dating in real life (obviously). They began dating before the band was officially formed, during rehearsals. A lot of info about this was confirmed on Harry's interview with [Howard Stern](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rg-Y1LSsJNk). In fact, a lot of random facts in this fic come from that interview!  
> ★ Their cat is based on [these](https://www.instagram.com/p/CDmQ2mDggGr/)[ pictures](https://www.instagram.com/p/B1yx7OlFcuN/) of Sarah. Pretty sure that is their cat!  
> ★ Harry is writing [Sunflower Vol. 6](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tUUElxEGo0U).


	6. Do You Ever Think Of Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting patiently for the latest update. Please enjoy! :)

Harry finds himself at Louis’ yellow front door for the second time in under three weeks. 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Harry says in a greeting, voice smooth with sarcasm. This time, he doesn’t even bat an eyelid when Cliff comes bounding through the open door and begins leaping up his body for attention.

Louis gives him a blank look, as if to say, _I’m not in the mood_. But Harry swears he sees the tug at the corner of his mouth that suggests otherwise.

“Come in,” Louis says, walking off down the hallway. Harry follows, closing the door around the excitable dogs. He stops in the entryway and kneels, patting both Cliff and Bruce vigorously. 

“Who’s a good boy?” He asks, bringing out the baby voice. Both dogs pant eagerly in response. 

“Don’t give that one any attention,” Louis hollers from the living room. Harry turns to see his head pop around the corner. “Went for me favourite socks this morning.”

Harry stands up, raising his eyebrows. “Unforgivable.” 

“Ignore the mess,” Louis says as Harry walks through the hallway. “Girls came up from Donny on the weekend. Had a bit of a sleepover party.”

Harry scams the living room, notices the PlayStation controllers, big blanket strewn across the couch, Blu Ray DVDs and empty McDonald’s packets. He can practically hear the echo of teenage girls laughing. He smiles softly to himself but makes an effort to hide it before Louis sees.

“How are they?” He asks, concealing his yearning as best as he can. Nobody tells you that when you break up with the love of your life, you break up with their family too. 

The only information he’s had about the Tomlinson-Deakin clan has been through Gemma, who is still good friends with Lottie. Aside from that, Harry hasn’t seen any of them in years. 

“Good, good. Daisy and Phoebe are about to do GCSEs,” Louis says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Lotts is flying all over the place as a brand ambassador and Fiz just launched a clothing line.” 

“Wow,” Harry says. “Time flies...”

Louis nods absentmindedly. He walks over to the kitchen island and puts the kettle on. There is nothing that more harshly demonstrates how much time they’ve spent apart, than talk of their family. Last Harry saw of Ernie and Doris, they were toddlers. Now he expects they’re in school. The reminder of their estrangement weighs heavy upon the room. Harry senses Louis doesn’t want to talk about his family with him any more than the simple pleasantries of answering his question. He figures he hardly has any leg to stand on in that regard. If he wanted the right to talk about Louis’ personal life, he should have thought about that before he went and broke his heart. 

“Saw the pictures, then, did you?” Louis changes the subject. He rifles through his pantry for teabags, unable to reach one on the higher shelf. He leans on his tiptoes, arms outstretched. “Bloody shelf,” he curses under his breath. 

Harry smiles awkwardly, coming to Louis’ aid, instinctively wanting to help. “Sometimes I wonder if you think you’re taller than you are,” He leans across, crowding Louis’ personal space, reaching for the packet. He hands it to a dazed-looking Louis. 

“Thanks,” Louis says, accepting it, dipping his head so that his fringe flutters into his eye line. He clears his throat and moves away from Harry in a weird stumble. Harry frowns, watching the way Louis’ whole body seems to reject the proximity like he’s a virus that needs to be expelled from the veins. 

“Honestly, you looked more in love in the photos with Taylor,” Louis remarks, still recovering from how close the two of them just were. It could be hurtful but it isn’t. Bearding was a sore point for them in the beginning, but by the end, they had other problems to worry about. 

“Makes you and Eleanor look like a married couple.” Harry counters, moving from the kitchen space back to the living room. He pushes aside some of the clutter on the couch to sit facing Louis while he grabs the mugs. 

Louis looks up from what he’s doing to smirk. “Touché.” 

Once he’s made the tea, he joins Harry on the couch, handing him a mug. “I know you don’t ever drink your tea but,” he shrugs. 

“Not true!” Harry takes it between two hands and blows gently on the steam. 

Louis scowls as he perches next to Harry, leaving a comfortable distance between them. “Sure,” he says. 

“My therapist thinks we should do trust-building exercises,” Harry says, lacing his fingers together to stop them from shaking. Even now, after seeing Louis several times in a short amount of time, his heart races around him. 

Louis scoffs. “Of course you have a therapist.”

Harry blinks, biting his tongue from saying something he may regret. “Yes, I do. Her name is Celeste. And she’s great, actually.”

“Great.” Louis snipes. “And does your _therapist_ ,” he emphasises the word, “know why we don’t have trust?” 

Harry clenches his jaw. “Yes.” 

His conversations with Celeste often revolve around Louis. It took him a long time to feel comfortable enough to talk about it - a mixture of shame that years on, he still needed help processing the breakup, and the overwhelming need to just shove it in a box in his brain and never open it again, worked against him. And in the end, Harry hadn’t even been the one to bring it up. During a session in L.A., Harry rambled about his life and the development of some anxious habits he’d begun recently, Celeste had calmly nodded, her face neutral. Her watery blue eyes, sun-kissed face and wavy strawberry blonde hair had stared at him and without responding to Harry’s trivial woes, asked, ‘ _what’s his name?_ ’ 

That was over a year ago. Their most recent phone call was far more productive on that front. Once Celeste had heard what Jane was insisting, she gave him a list of exercises she usually provides for those doing couples counselling. 

Louis contemplates Harry’s words then gives him a nod. “Alright. What sort of trust-building things are we talking about here? ‘Cause I’m not going to do trust falls or stare lovingly into your eyes for the next half hour.”

“As much as I would _love_ to do that,” Harry replies cooly, “No. Just basic getting-to-know-you things.” 

Louis fidgets. Takes a slurp of his tea. “Sounds easy enough.”

Harry’s body relaxes, realises he was tensing his muscles until the moment Louis agreed to try. He’s become so used to the Louis that gives up on him, that he forgot that there was any other version to see.

“Okay,” he pulls out his phone and opens the tab he saved. “I have a list she sent me here.” He looks through the suggestions, avoiding any that involve getting too intimate. “Exchange secrets.”

“Secrets?” Louis squints, sceptical. “Sorry, didn’t realise we were teenage girls.” 

Harry glares. “Could be anything. Just tell me something I don’t know about you.” He doesn’t point out that this could be anything over the last three years, anything at all, seeing as Harry has no clue about his life now.

“Er, alright...” Louis takes another sip of his tea, before resting it in his lap. “I tried to go vegetarian once and couldn’t last a week. Went to the nearest McDonalds drive-through and got the meatiest burger I could find.”

Harry laughs. “When was this?”

“Oh, about a year ago. Wanted to be healthy. Failed miserably.” 

“I don’t eat meat actually,” Harry says, realising this is new information for Louis.

“Go on, rub it in, then,” Louis jokes. 

Harry lets out a breathy laugh. “No, really! I try not to, anyway. I’m not, like, strictly vegetarian… I like tuna.”

“You are weird, Harry.” Louis shakes his head. “Part-time vegetarian.” He pauses, then adds, “your turn.” 

“Erm...” Harry tilts his head, still smiling to himself as he looks off at a print on Louis’ mantle. His heart does a weird flip when he realises it’s the one Harry bought him for Louis’ 22nd birthday. And here it is - pride of place - nearly six years later. In all the chaos of the previous weeks, he hadn’t noticed it there when he first came to Louis’ house. 

The photograph is framed in black, a narrow rectangular image of three sets of couples kissing. A man and a woman, two men and two women, respectively. In blue capital letters above them, it reads: _Kissing doesn’t kill. Greed and indifference do_. Louis and Harry first came across the image in a New York gallery exhibition on the AIDs crisis. Harry can’t remember the name of it, they went sometime early in their relationship, but the impact of the image touched them both. 

Harry can’t believe Louis kept it. After all this time. 

“Earth to Harry?” Louis chimes in playfully.

“Sorry,” Harry returns his gaze to Louis, who frowns. “I bit the end of my tongue off while high on mushrooms.” 

Louis splutters, almost spitting out his tea. “You _what_?”

Harry laughs lightly, glad for the distraction. He doesn’t want to draw attention to the things he’s feeling, stirring in his belly. “Bit the end of my tongue off!” He then leans forward, poking his tongue out to show the way the tip of his tongue is now slightly jagged. 

“What you do that for!” Louis grimaces, pulling away. 

“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose did I?” Harry snorts. “I fell and my jaw shut on my tongue. There was blood everywhere…” He smirks, almost boastful. “It was pretty gnarly.” 

“Didn’t even know you did mushrooms.” Louis muses. “Thought you weren’t into that sort of thing.” 

“I wasn’t,” Harry shrugs. “But I dunno, when it’s with friends and it’s... chill... It can be fun.” 

“Except when you bite your tongue off,” Louis laughs. 

“Except then, yes,”

They both go quiet, and Louis chews his lip in contemplation. Harry lets himself admire him, even if only for the amount of time it takes for Louis to speak again. He drinks in what he can; Louis’ messy hair, the denim blue of his eyes, the soft curve of bicep peeking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt. Then Harry blinks and forces his eyes elsewhere.

“I’ve got a tattoo of a penguin on me arse,” Louis says suddenly. 

“Knew that,” Harry says a little too flippantly. He flushes the moment Louis’ eyes widen. “I mean, I read it somewhere, I don’t know.”

“Right... okay, well, how ‘bout...” Louis pauses. “I kissed Niall drunk once.” 

Harry’s stomach squirms. Niall is an affectionate drunk, and incidentally very heterosexual, but picturing Louis kissing someone else causes a gut reaction on instinct. He can’t deny it’s a weird mixture of jealousy and amusement he feels at the thought.

“We’ve all kissed Niall drunk,” Harry says, deadpan. “It’s what he does, the flirt. Tell me something serious, Louis.” 

“You didn’t say it had to be serious!” Louis folds his arms. 

“Well, now I am.” 

“Fine,” Louis says. “What do you want to know?”

Harry thinks for a second. His heart pounds in his chest. “Anything.” He says. “Everything.” He amends, looking down.

“That really narrows it down,” Louis says sarcastically, though it’s half-hearted.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Harry asks, ignoring Louis’ comment. 

“Well, _you_ apparently,” Louis says, then sensing Harry’s vulnerability, clears his throat. “No. Not dating at all.” He bites his thumbnail. “Are you?”

“No. No one.” 

Louis lets out a sigh. “Has there been anyone…?” he trails off.

“Yes, and no,” Harry answers, trying to be candid. He has dated, on and off. After all, it’s been three years. Part of the reason they broke up was that they needed to explore the curiosity of what-ifs with other people. Being as young as they were when they got together meant all they knew were each other. Harry hadn’t even slept with anyone else. Newly single, he tried flings with men and women. The reality hasn’t been as exciting, though. No one quite gets Harry. His fancies are flighty and short-lived. “No one seriously.” 

He waits, nervous to know if Louis is going to offer his own answer. 

“Me either, to be honest,” Louis shrugs, looks down at his tea before deciding to add, “I mean, I dated this bloke for about eight months a while back. Wasn’t a proper relationship, though.” 

Harry flinches. _Eight months._ In the grand scheme of things, that isn’t very long, he’ll admit it. But eight months is longer than any of Harry’s ‘flings’ have ever been. Depending on the perspective, eight months is a lifetime. He wants to know how Louis could spend time with someone for the better half of a year and not consider it a ‘proper’ relationship. What were they doing? Sleeping together? The thought is enough to turn his stomach to acid. 

“Why’d you end it?” he asks, feeling brave. His mind is racing, realising Louis has exes after Harry, and Harry has done nothing more than sleep around a bit. He can feel the embarrassment manifesting on his face, rushing to his cheeks. 

Louis’ eyelashes flutter. He looks on the verge of dismissal like he might tell Harry to mind his own business. But he seems to think the better of it. 

“Just wasn’t… right.” He nods, lips in a firm line. Harry doesn’t ask for more details. “When you know, you know.” 

They stare at one another for an uncomfortable amount of time. Eventually, Harry breaks the spell, clears his throat and looks down at his phone again. “I’ve got a few questions,” he says, looking at the list his therapist provided. He reads one out. “What’s something I might not want to hear, but should know?” 

Louis sucks in a sharp breath. “Really going in, then are we?”

“Yep.”

“I dunno if you _need_ to know this, but,” Louis shrugs, “I almost got one of our tattoos covered,” He scratches the back of his neck. “But I couldn’t go through with it.” 

Harry wishes this was a surprise, but it isn’t. He thought about it himself, in the darkest part of their break-up. They had so much history, and it was written all over his body. He couldn’t escape it. Eventually, Harry accepted that part of his life would never leave him. 

“Which one?” he asks. 

“The compass,” Louis’ palm instinctively brushes across the spot on his upper arm where the tattoo is. “Booked the appointment and everythin’.”

“So why didn’t you?” 

Louis looks at Harry with an intensity that Harry hasn’t seen for a long time. “I don’t know.” He answers. He’s lying - Harry can tell, even now, when he’s lying. But he doesn’t push it.

Harry, letting it slide, looks down at the next. “When do you think we were happiest together?” 

Louis looks pained, only for a split second, and then it’s gone. 

“I think... when we bought the house in Hampstead. Doing it up. Painting and all that. Making it a home.”

Harry smiles at the memory. If he squints hard enough he can almost see the paint swipes on Louis’ cheeks from a full day of painting the breakfast nook and kitchen. He can see the sun setting on Louis’ face after they collapsed on the floor, calling it a day. He can see the way Louis looked at him, saying with his eyes that he’d paint every kitchen in the world just to be by Harry’s side. 

He daydreams of those days sometimes. Sleeping in till noon, wasting time together on the short break between tours. The morning Harry stuck a nail through his foot running down the stairs, shrieking so loud he woke the whole neighbourhood, and then when Louis saw it, he screamed as well. He fainted before he could help Harry pull it out. The weeks of having to have sex on the dirty floor of the upstairs bedroom because they didn’t even have a mattress yet. 

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” Harry says quietly, flushing. 

“What were you going to say?”

“The last tour with the band. We had a lot more freedom and it was just fun. We had fun together.”

Louis nods. “Let me ask the next one.” He takes Harry’s phone, scanning the screen. “What’s your biggest regret about our relationship?”

Harry’s fiddling with his rings again, the massive H and S twisting around his knuckles. He wants to be honest, but in doing so, he’s worried he’ll open Pandora's box. Because there isn’t just one regret when it comes to Louis. He regrets the little things - like hanging up on him in frustration, the unnecessarily cruel comments that would come out when they were just so fucking tired of one another toward the end. He regrets not being more compassionate to how Louis felt, and he regrets thinking everything could be solved with a kiss and an apology. And the bigger things too, the things that haunt him in the middle of the night. Like sitting in silence at the kitchen table, because somehow, after five years, it was easier not to talk. Like telling Louis he didn’t love him anymore when he did. He regrets everything that got them to this place, right now, acting like strangers. 

But how can he tell Louis that? 

“Not talking properly,” Harry answers slowly. “Especially when... especially at the end.”

Louis bites his lip. He looks as if he’s about to give his own answer, but instead he reads the next question. “Do you ever think of me?” 

“Yes,” Harry says confidentially. _All the time_ , he doesn’t add. “Do you?”

The two of them make eye contact and Harry feels a jolt of electricity. How are they still so magnetic? Even now? 

“Enough questions,” Louis says, adjusting his position so that he’s further from Harry. “What else is on this list of yours.” 

“Why won’t you answer?”

“Because I don’t have to.” Louis pouts.

“You can tell the truth. It’s fine if you haven’t.” 

Louis stares stonily. “You’ve got no idea,”

“What?”

“Never mind, Harry. Let’s move on, alright?”

“Fine,” Harry gulps. “Next suggestion is the gratitude game.” 

“The what?”

“The gratitude game,” Harry repeats. “We take turns saying nice things about each other without breaking eye contact.” 

“Do we have to?” Louis asks, visibly sagging.

“Would you rather a trust fall?” Harry teases.

“Bloody hell,” Louis curses, rubbing his face in frustration. “Fine. Here goes it.” He concedes. “You’ve got good hair.”

“Wow,” Harry says impassively. “I’m flattered with compliments.” 

“Don’t push it.” Louis warns.

“You’ve got a good sense of humour,” Harry replies, perkier.

Louis’ cheeks go pink. “You’re unnecessarily kind to everyone,” he says, sounding offended by his own words. “ _Literally_ everyone. Strangers on the street.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Harry laughs, “You’re great with children.”

“You’re spontaneous.” 

“You’re marginally good at football.”

“How’d you mean, ‘ _marginally’_?” Louis asks, affronted. When Harry shakes his head, he rolls his eyes. “You’ve got good taste in clothes. Most of the time.”

Harry scowls. “You’re always honest.”

“You know when it’s better to lie.” Louis counters quickly.

“You can nap literally anywhere.” 

“Is that a good thing?”

“Definitely.” Harry nods.

“I like how ambitious you are.”

“I like that you’re loyal.” Harry smiles.

“You’re a good cook,” Louis replies, each exchange coming to them quicker and quicker. 

“You’re a good writer.” Neither one of them has to even think about it now, the niceties flowing easily. It almost feels as if they’re competing to give the best compliment.

“You’re a good kisser,” Louis says without missing a beat.

“What?” Harry asks, freezing. 

“What?” Louis retorts. 

“Did you just say I’m a good kisser?” 

“No.” Louis’ eyes have gone wide.

“You did.” 

“No, I didn’t!” Louis snaps, going a shade of scarlet Harry’s never seen before. 

They both go silent, deadly so. Harry can practically hear the air moving. 

“Right…” Harry says, trying to fill the quietude. The tension in the air has risen tenfold, he’s practically suffocating in it. He darts his eyes around, looking for something - _anything_ \- to change the fucking subject. Finally, he returns his glassy eyes to Louis, and blurts, “Where’s your toilet?” 

“Up the stairs and to the left.” Louis supplies, sighing the words with relief. 

Harry rushes up the stairs, grateful to have come up with an excuse to get him out of that situation as quickly as possible. He goes into the bathroom, ignoring the sleek interior design that he’d normally admire. The bathroom smells of lemongrass, and there’s a diffuser on the bench. If they were close, Harry would tease Louis about that. Instead, he’s too busy thinking on overdrive. 

He stands over the basin, gripping it either side and staring at his own intense reflection in the mirror. His eyes are dilated, his lips quivering from the adrenaline. Heart pounding in his chest, he can’t get the image of Louis’ mortification out of his mind. It’s burnt onto his retinas. 

“You’re fine,” He mutters under his breath, skin crawling with a perverse excitement. “This. Is. Fine.” 

He’s not convincing himself, so he quickly turns on the tap and splashes his face with cool water. He looks back up at his reflection and all that’s changed is his face is dripping wet. Fantastic. 

How is he meant to process what just happened? Is he overreacting? Or is what Louis said as crazy as it seems? 

Harry takes a few steady breaths in, then out, before wiping his face dry with a hand towel. There’s no use standing here, talking to himself. He needs an outsider’s perspective. 

Pulling out his phone, Harry dials Sarah’s number. 

“Hello?” Sarah asks, voice gentle as always. 

“I’m panicking.” Harry answers in a whisper, ten octaves lower than her. 

“Harry?” Sarah sounds concerned. And then, mirroring his quietness, “Why are we whispering?” 

“I’m with Louis.” He says. “Or, I was, but now I’m in his toilet and my head’s all over the place.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Sarah makes a sound of understanding. “Right…” 

“Something happened.”

“You’re going to have to elaborate,” Sarah states the obvious, still humouring Harry by talking softly.

“I’m at Louis’ house,” Harry begins, slow and steady. “And he said something weird… and now I’m hiding in the bathroom.”

“Weird? Weird, how?” Sarah asks, uneasy. He’s grateful that she hasn’t criticised his choice of a hiding place.

“Like, really weird.” Harry takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes. “He said I was a good kisser.”

“He _what?_ ” Sarah does away with the quietude, practically shouting down the line. Harry has to jerk his phone from his ear, before putting it back to his cheek.

“We were trying to complement one another,” Harry can practically hear the silence on the other line. “I dunno, my therapist suggested it. Anyway. We sort of got competitive ‘bout it… and next thing I know he’s said I’m a good kisser.”

“Christ.” Sarah hisses. “That is truly…” she’s lost for words. “How did he say it?” 

“What’s that matter?” he frowns. It’s been so long since he called up a friend to dissect something a boy said to him, he feels sixteen again. Never mind that it’s about the same boy it was then as it is now.

“Well, if he said it sweetly like, maybe he meant to flirt with you. If he said it, er, maybe in an offhand way, he might just be trying to get a rise out of you. Or taking the mickey.”

“He kind of… said it… fast,” Harry thinks back, cringing at the memory already. It’s hard to say, it all happened so quickly. He knows it can’t have been flirtatious, because of how embarrassed Louis looked afterwards. And, well, because Harry knows Louis wouldn’t flirt with him. He barely tolerates his presence, for God’s sake. It didn’t seem to be said out of spite, either, though. “By accident, I think?” 

Sarah makes a sound of understanding, thoughtful almost.

“What’s that mean?” he asks, fretting. It never occurred to him that there could be a certain meaning in what Louis said. 

“Could mean anything, H. I don’t know Louis, so I can’t really say.” 

Harry whines, rubbing his face down with the palm of his hand. 

“And what exactly do you hope to achieve by hiding in his toilet?” Sarah perks up. 

“Er, divine clarity, maybe?” Harry laughs. 

“He’s just waiting for you?” 

“... Maybe.” Harry’s lip jerks with guilt. 

“Harry!” Sarah exclaims, “You can’t do that. He’ll think you’re avoiding him!”

“I _am_ avoiding him!” Harry says, then with a sort of hysterical laugh, “Maybe he’ll just think I have bowel problems.” 

Sarah huffs. “Yes, because that’s a superior alternative,” her words drip with exasperation. “ _Regardless_ , you can’t leave the man hanging.” 

“What am I gonna say, SJ?” he asks, pleading really. 

“I’ve no clue. But you won’t get answers in the loo. Get back out there.” 

Once he’s hung up on Sarah (reluctantly so), Harry takes another deep breath and leaves the bathroom. He pauses on the landing of the upstairs hallway, distracted by Louis’ private space. The walls are a matt white, lined with miss-matched frames of family photos. He leans in closer, looking at the images. There are a few formal looking photos of the Tomlinson-Deakins, their traditional Christmas photoshoot, and a lovely shot of Jay on her wedding day. 

The room down the end of the hall has the door ajar. From the corner of his eye, Harry spies a blur of colour. Yellow. He turns toward it, edging closer until his palm is pressing against the door and pushing it fully open. 

The second Harry stands in the entrance, a musky and floral scent wafts over him, bombarding him with all that is Louis. The room is in movement as if Louis has just tossed aside the blankets and rushed out the door. His clothes are in random piles, at the end of the bed, on a lounge chair in the corner, on the floor. It’s a mess, but it’s so achingly familiar to Harry that he feels a fondness for it. His house hasn’t been so messy in years. Not without Louis. 

On the bedside table, along with a pile of assorted sweets wrappers and knickknacks, is a glass with a sunflower in it. Stem cut short to fit in the small glass, but still. _The_ sunflower. The one Harry bought him at Columbia Road Markets. Somehow Harry neglected to realise Louis might keep the flower. Let alone put it on display in the intimacy of his bedroom. 

This piece of information, coupled with what Louis said, settles in the pit of Harry’s stomach like a stone. It’s weighty and unavoidable. He struggles with it, tossing it over in his mind, feeling it out. He decides, as precious seconds tick by, that he cannot and will not mention this to Louis. What good could come of it? 

Finally, Harry heads back down the stairs and into Louis’ living room. He’s quiet enough that there’s a split second before Louis notices he’s standing there. Harry hesitates, watching Louis’ form hunched over on the couch, looking soft, vulnerable somehow. 

“I, erm,” Harry begins, and Louis’ head whips around in surprise. “I’ve got to head off.” 

“Right! Yeah, ‘course,” Louis says quickly, rising to his feet. 

He walks Harry to his front door, and Harry feels a familiar sense of deja vu. How many times will they walk out on one another, not saying the things they really mean? He was sure they were done doing this years ago. 

“Louis?” Harry asks abruptly, turning on his heels to face Louis who stands at the threshold of his front door, hand mid-swinging the door closed. He can’t bear the thought that he might leave Louis’ house on weird terms, not sure when he’ll see him again. He wants to know that outside of their work obligations, they really will keep trying to make this work. Whatever ‘this’ is. 

“Yeah?” 

“I will see you again, soon, won’t I?”

A flicker of something runs across Louis’ face, and it’s gone before Harry can decipher it. 

“Yes, of course.”

A beat, and Harry's staring at the yellow front door again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References
> 
> ★ The print in Louis’ living room is a [real AIDs awareness](https://www.vam.ac.uk/blog/wp-content/uploads/2006AV92881-e1409826374399.jpg) image. It was on display in an AIDs art archive recently!  
> ★ I got the trust-building questions off of some random therapy website. I'm sure it's easy to find something like it online!


	7. Gay Cowboy Costumes

A week before Halloween, Harry gets a text inviting him to a costume party on the 31st. The invite is from Cara and Ashley, who, having decided to spend some time in London with Cara’s family, figured a last-minute Halloween party would be fun. The text is a chain to about fifty other people in Harry’s contacts, plus a few more he doesn’t know well enough, probably Ashley’s friends. 

Cara always hosts good parties, even if they are usually spontaneous, she somehow pulls it off as if months of planning went into it. She’s also just one of those people who is friends with everyone, and even if you haven’t seen her in a while, you can still count on her for a good time. It might be nice to have something like this to distract from the pressures of work, and of everything else Harry’s trying not to think about. 

On the other hand, Harry kind of hates Halloween. Not because the concept is bad – he absolutely loves an excuse to dress up – but because he never knows how much effort everyone else is going to put in. Considering this is short notice, people might not go for it. He doesn’t want to be the guy who underdresses because everyone else couldn’t be bothered. Or because he only had a week to find a costume. He’d rather not go at all, than show up without making an effort.

Before Harry gets a chance to answer, Louis beats him to it. He stares at the message in the chat, among others of a similar vein: “ _sounds siiiiick ! Will be there_ ” and feels panic rise in his throat. It didn’t occur to him that they had enough mutual friends, after all this time, to be invited to the same event outside of work gigs. 

He hasn’t seen Louis since last week when they tried to do trust-building exercises. They haven’t spoken since. He can’t categorically say that they ended things on good terms, because the whole thing had been so emotionally exhausting that when Harry got home he couldn’t sort fact from fiction. Instead, he knuckled down on work, fine-tuning lyrics on some songs that didn’t feel completely finished. 

Now Harry has to tread lightly. If he says no, it’ll look like he and Louis didn’t coordinate. If he says yes, then he won’t be able to simply enjoy a night out with mates, it’ll turn into a performance. And above all, it would be shit to stay home, like a coward, just to avoid his fake boyfriend. He deserves a good night out, too.

 _And maybe, just maybe..._ a small voice in the back of his mind chimes in. Maybe he actually wouldn’t mind seeing Louis again. Before the awkward way they left things, it felt as if they were actually getting someplace. They were best friends, once, after all. Before things got complicated. Maybe they can be friends again. 

_Fuck it_ , Harry thinks. So what if people don’t go for it? He’s not going to be the one between him and Louis to chicken out. 

_Count me in,_ he types out, and clicks send. 

***

Louis doesn’t text Harry over the coming days about the party, so Harry doesn’t either. He doesn’t want to be the first to reach out, not when he’s made most of the effort so far. When the 31st approaches and Harry’s already sorted out a costume, he figures he won’t be hearing from Louis at all. _Maybe he’s not even going to go_ , Harry wonders. And he can’t tell if the thought brings relief or disappointment. 

The night of the party, Harry arrives in Mayfair to an extravagant Mews house. Flashing lights and booming bass pulse out onto the sidewalk. Cara’s inner London place is nestled among the homes of the rich and famous, and there’s an unspoken agreement about events such as these. There are no photographers, which means Cara must’ve made an effort to pay them off. 

Although there’s a sense of casualness because the party’s at someone’s home, rather than a massive booked out club or venue, that’s about where the informality ends. There’s a guard at the entrance, approving names, and once inside, there are cocktail waitresses in elaborate coordinated costumes, drifting through rooms with champagne and finger food. 

Cara and Ashley’s London house is as loud as their LA place. Even in the dark and crowded rooms, Harry notices the busy wallpapers adorning the walls, tropical jungle prints with roaring lions painted on them. There’s a huge hot pink neon sign glowing in the dark that reads like a seedy strip joint: _GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS!_ And delightful artwork of nipples and naked women scattering the hallway. 

The Halloween party is in full swing, lights dimmed low, music loud, people mingling and dancing. Harry recognises a few faces here and there, raising a hand in recognition to Rita Ora who’s chatting animatedly to Stormzy, as he makes his way through the house. It seems most people have made an effort with their outfits, a fully suited up Ironman snogging an equally realistic-looking Captain America in a corner causing Harry to let out a little laugh. He casts his eyes through the kitchen, hoping to find a familiar face, instead of seeing numerous Playboy bunnies, Astronauts and obscurely dressed people that must be from some show Harry doesn’t watch. He catches sight of Cara and Ashley, dressed as Danny and Sandy from _Grease_ , respectively, and he makes a note to say thanks for the invite later on.

“Harry!” A voice calls across the noise, and he turns to see Eleven from _Stranger Things_ approaching him. Once the figure gets closer, Harry realises the person is Andy in a pink dress and a blonde wig. “Just saw your better half. Said you had a work thing, I thought you’d be later! How’s the music coming along?” 

Harry smiles and laughs, giving his old friend a hug. Andy is a strange person to keep tabs on, rarely will see you more than once or twice a year. He’s obscure in that Harry has no idea how they even met, only that this guy popped up in his circles a few years ago only to pop back up every few months. He’s not in the music industry, in fact, he’s a real estate agent. Somehow he’s always the life and soul of the party though. 

“Yeah, good, thanks for asking.” 

“Love the costume, mate,” Andy says, scanning Harry from head to toe. He lets out a derisive laugh, and Harry frowns a little, unsure what’s so funny. “You guys kill me.” He shakes his head, pats Harry rather hard on the shoulder and then shimmies off to dance to an old Katy Perry song that’s playing. 

“Weird guy,” Harry says aloud in his wake, pauses a moment, then shakes it off. A waitress walks by and he scoops up a glass of red wine, thinking the night will go a lot smoother if he’s had a bit to drink.

He looks at his phone, wondering if he should text Louis or just wait ‘til he finds him. After drafting three or four different alternatives to the simple _“I’m here, where are you?”_ message, Harry gives up. He’ll find him sooner or later. 

“ ‘ARRY!” Hollers a familiar cockney accent, and he turns through the crowd to spot Adele heading toward him. She’s nearly unrecognisable, her usually blonde trestles hidden beneath a deep red wig that stands up on her head in a curly bouffant. Her face is painted up in exaggerated Elizabethan make-up. He realises she’s dressed as one of the Sanderson sisters from _Hocus Pocus_. 

“Louis’ costume makes so much more sense!” Adele says in greeting, rushing forward to give him a hug. He nearly gets caught on her many layers of dress, velvet and fishnet hooking on the buttons of his shirt. Once she’s released him, she asks, “Let me guess, you’re Jake? You’ve _got_ to be the Jake.”

“Excuse me?” Harry frowns, looking down at his costume. It’s no Elton John Dodgers Stadium costume, but he still made plenty of effort. And anyway, there was no way he was going to top that costume this year with only a week’s notice. “I’m Woody.” 

“Yeah, Jake Gyllenhaal,” she says with a nod, waving away her error. Her accent is greatly exaggerated by the slur in her voice. “Whatever the character’s name is.” 

He was sure his costume would be obvious. He’s Woody from _Toy Story_ , boots and all. He went to a lot of trouble, actually. He didn’t get a pre-made costume from a party shop but put something together that makes Woody look a little less like a cartoon and a little more like a real sheriff. He’s got the cowboy hat on, real leather, a dusty yellow and red checked Gucci shirt, a red bandana he already had lying around, and an old Yves Saint Laurent vest he didn’t wear anymore that he painted cow print to perfect the look. Maybe he tried a little too hard to be authentic, but who cares? He loved Pixar films growing up, and with the resurgence of the fourth film just four months prior, it just seemed apt. 

“Jake Gyllenhaal didn’t voice Woody, Tom Hanks did,” Harry affirms with a frown. 

Adele looks baffled, “You talk some shit, ‘Arry.” She lets out a raucous laugh, slapping him in the arm. Harry writes the whole thing off as Adele being a bit too drunk. “Louis’ in the third-floor livin’ room if you’re lookin’ for him,” she gives a wry chuckle, her heart-shaped lipstick pulling apart at the seams from her amusement, “Or should I say, _Heath_.” 

Before Harry can ask why on earth she would call Louis ‘Heath’, she spots someone else in the crowd, James Corden, and is shouting his name before jogging off. Still in a bit of a stupor, and feeling a bit downtrodden that his well-thought-out costume is not getting the recognition it deserves, Harry heads for the third floor. 

He sculls the wine in his hand, placing the glass on the nearest benchtop, and picks up another drink, a cocktail this time. He takes a large gulp as he heads up the stairs, hoping it’ll take effect soon. He doesn’t really drink much, except on special occasions. But there’s simply no way he’ll be able to cope with playing house with Louis all night without a bit of liquid courage.

When he rounds the corner to the living room, Harry almost wishes he’d stayed home. Seeing Louis for the first time since their chat last week, he has no idea where he stands with him. They’d done so well, opening up, being vulnerable with one another without vindictiveness. But then Louis said… well. And now things are awkward again. 

Louis sits, relaxed into the sunken couch next to Niall, chatting animated over glasses of beer. Niall is dressed as a pirate, patch covering one eye and plastic sword discarded on the coffee table in the middle. Louis, wearing a Stetson, is dressed in a suede jacket, plain blue shirt and denim jeans. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like a generic cowboy. 

And then it clicks. Louis’ outfit, Harry’s outfit. Jake and Heath. _Brokeback Mountain._ People think they’re doing a couples costume of the cowboys in _Brokeback Fucking Mountain_. Oh, bloody hell. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Louis.” Harry sighs, approaching Louis, who, upon hearing his name, whips his head around to see Harry standing before him. He rises, looks Harry up and down, then lets out a cackle. 

“Harold!” Niall greets, watching the stilted interaction between Harry and Louis unfold from the comfort of the couch. He gets up, giving Harry an enthusiastic hug. “You guys are matching!” he states the obvious as he pulls away. 

There’s an awkward second where Harry isn’t sure if he is supposed to hug Louis or not. But there’s no one paying them much attention, and the moment passes before he is able to act on it. 

Louis shakes his head, looking amused. “Nialler, you ever seen the film _Brokeback Mountain_?” 

“ _No!_ ” Niall says, dawning realisation all over his face. “You didn’t plan this…?” he lets the question hang in the air, looking between the snickering Louis and scolding Harry. “Oh, _this_ is good.” he snorts, taking a swig of his beer. 

“You couldn’t have worn… I dunno, _literally_ anything else?” Harry implores. 

“I didn’t know you’d wear _that_!” Louis points at Harry, unable to contain his laughter. Harry can tell instantly, by the pitch of his laugh, that he’s at least tipsy. 

“This isn’t funny,” Harry says curtly, looking between Niall and Louis who seem to think otherwise. “Everyone thinks we’ve co-ordinated!” 

“C’mon, it’s a lil' bit funny.” Louis counters, smirking at Harry’s frustration. 

Harry groans in response. “I put so much effort into this!” he complains, his facade cracking slightly at Niall’s infectious laughter. He gestures to himself, aware he sounds like a teenager having a mild tantrum. 

“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to let that go, lad, because everyone thinks we’re gay cowboys.” Louis tries to hold back the amusement and ends up snorting out an undignified laugh instead. 

“I’m gonna need another drink,” Harry mumbles in defeat, which causes Niall to cackle again, and Louis to break out into a shining smile. Harry actually falters at the sight of it. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen Louis look so happy in his presence in a very long time. It might just be because he’s a little drunk right now, but Harry’ll take what he can get. 

“Wait a second. Adele reckons I’m dressed as Jake Gyllenhaal’s character. Why am I the one that dies!” Harry exclaims with indignance, finding a place on the couch between Niall and Louis to sit.

“Don’t take it so personal, you’ve just got the hair for it.” Louis takes a swig of his drink, a glint in his eyes. Harry had been so worried about tonight, but maybe he didn’t need to be. 

“So, how you two lovebirds goin’?” Niall asks, looking like the cat that caught the canary. 

“Just over the moon, really,” Harry answers, sarcastic. Louis laughs but doesn’t correct him. 

“Oh, c’mon. Be honest,” The Irishman prompts, “Have you driven each other mad yet?”

“Have to admit, it’s been alright actually, lad,” Louis says, nodding. Harry refrains from asking how much he’s had to drink.

“I haven’t gone full Bunny Boiler mode yet, at least,” Harry adds, ignoring the jolt in his stomach at Louis’ words. This isn’t the time or the place to be analysing that. “But it’s still early days.”

Niall lets out one of his famous chortles. “Saw the pap photos, you two got some warmin’ up to do, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, alright, Neil,” Louis scoffs, looking affronted. “And how many fake relationships have you been in?” 

“Keep ya voice down, buddy,” Niall answers, trying not to laugh. 

Louis folds his arms in triumph. “That’s what I thought.” 

“So as you can tell, it’s going swimmingly,” Harry says, making his voice deliberately phony. 

Niall, grinning, takes a swig of his beer. “Listen, anything is an improvement, mate,” his face darkens slightly, turns more sincere. “The fact that you two are actually smilin’ ‘round one another is great.”

“Don’t get sappy, it’s too early in the night for that,” Louis breezes over the tension in the air easily. 

The conversation changes focus, and Harry feels himself relax not being under the microscope. He keeps eyeing Louis, then looking away when he thinks Louis might have noticed. He’s trying to gauge, without words, what the other man might be thinking after the last time they saw one another.

People come and go from the couch, usually acknowledging the _Brokeback Mountain_ likeness, or just generally commenting on their relationship status. Louis and Harry simply smile and bear it. At no point are they afforded the privacy for Harry to ask how Louis is really feeling about all of this. In fact, they don’t even really talk to one another at all, even for appearances. 

Eventually, Niall disappears in pursuit of more alcohol, and Harry and Louis find themselves on the out of one of the circles of chatter happening besides them. 

Nearby, someone lights a cigarette, and the smoke fills the small space up quickly. It’s stuffy and grey, and Harry can’t help but let out a choky cough. Besides him, Louis becomes agitated. He bites the skin at the side of his finger, and Harry has the urge to reach out and pull his hand away from his teeth. He doesn’t.

“D’ya mind if we go someplace else?” Louis asks, mouth covered by his hand. 

“Hmm?” Harry frowns, “I mean, sure, yes. Why?”

“I, er, sort of quit smoking,” Louis averts his eyes, scratching the back of his neck. “The smell of it drives me a bit mad, so…” he huffs a self-conscious laugh. 

“Oh!” Harry lets out involuntarily, surprised. He always hated that Louis smoked. It was the only thing he didn’t like about him. But Louis never gave any indication while they were dating that he planned on quitting. “Yeah, of course. Let’s go outside.” 

The pair silently make their way onto an empty balcony, spacious and private. Stepping out, Harry can see the entirety of the party going on downstairs. People are jumping into the pool, fully dressed. Others are stripping down to their underwear, not caring that it’s a frosty Autumn evening. He spots a laughing banana and a drenched Pink Lady sitting in the spa, steam engulfing their figures. 

There’s some outdoor furniture on balcony, three comfy looking linen lounge chairs that Louis bypasses, sliding to the ground, leaning his back against the outer wall. He stares off, quiet. Harry lingers a moment, before deciding to be brave, and sliding down the wall next to Louis. 

“Soooooo…” Harry’s mouth forms a small ‘o’. “You quit, huh?”

Louis nods, staring off. “It was a bitch to do, but yeah.”

“Why?” 

“Was sick of using it to cope. Sort of woke up one day and realised I needed to be better to myself. Total cheese, I know.”

Harry’s heart is tender in his chest like it’s bruised from Louis’ words. “No, Louis, that’s… that’s not cheesy at all. I’m proud of you.” He falters on the last comment, realising he might be overstepping the boundaries they’ve so meticulously built between them. Every moment in Louis’ presence so far has felt as if they’ve been slowing chipping away at that wall, though. It’s terrifying, but he can’t stop. 

“Thanks,” Louis mumbles, and he turns his head away from Harry, looking out the other side of the balcony.

“You okay?” Harry asks the sky, looking up at the darkness. His voice comes out gravelly, and he clears his throat into the silence. 

“Yeah,” Louis says back, raspy. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Harry turns his head slightly, watching Louis from the corner of his eye. The porch lights and the moonlight hit the profile of Louis’ face, creating a glowing outline. Harry hates being aware of how heavenly he is. 

Louis turns his head, just slightly, and the two make eye contact. Their faces are so close. Harry’s heart leaps in his chest. He feels like a kid again.

“Nothing,” he says, smiling sadly. He turns his face away, only slightly breaking the spell. There’s no fully breaking it, not around Louis. “I’m just… I’m stuck.”

Harry frowns, opens his mouth to ask what he means. 

“You ever want to write so fuckin’ bad but you can’t?” His Northern accent is exaggerated from the alcohol so that the swearword comes out more like _fookin’._

Harry stares, still not totally getting it.

“This album…” Louis shakes his head, physically ridding himself of his emotions. “I dunno why I’m tellin’ you this. Like you’d care.” 

“No,” Harry quickly interjects. He takes another sip of his Mint Julep and feels the shudder down his spine as the alcohol hits his system. “Tell me.”

The air so cold Harry can see Louis’ breath when he sighs. Louis’ cheeks, too, are flushed from it. Harry can’t actually feel the chill, because the alcohol is warming him from the inside out.

“This album…” Louis begins, “I’ve been working on it for years, know what I mean? S’meant to be done and ready… but I just,” he sighs, thinks for a moment. “I dunno. Guess I’ve just got writer’s block or summit.” 

“I know what you mean,” Harry says, ignoring Louis’ attempts to make light. “With my first album… I felt I was trying so hard to get it right that I sort of… missed the point.”

Louis nods. “I listened to it, you know.” 

Harry’s heart seizes. The thought had occurred to him, once, moons ago. But he never gave it too much traction, afraid of how he might spiral. It was imperative to actively _not_ imagine Louis listening to the heartbreak in his voice, in the lyrics he wrote about him. 

“You did?” he asks.

“Yeah. After I’d had a few, mind, but yeah,” Louis admits, smiling from embarrassment. “It was good. Kiwi’s a banger. No fuckin’ clue what it’s about, but it’s a banger.” 

Harry’s cheeks flush, and he wants to hide his face forever. Of course, Harry has always written his songs with one person listening in mind. He just never thought, that person actually would. 

“Shit.” he curses, stumped. “Well, I don’t know what to say.”

Louis laughs. “S’alright. It wasn’t as bad as you think. A little painful, but compared to the shit we actually said to each other, it was nothin’.” 

Harry grimaces. “Yeah, s’pose you’re right.” He stares into the silence, thinking. He thinks about his mindset writing ‘Harry Styles’, and all the emotion that went into it. He thought then, that he was being so raw and open. But if the person that he hurt the most can say it was fine, then he can’t really have poured his soul into it as much as he thought. He’s proud of the album, but he knows this time around, he’s not holding back. He’s giving it everything. Even if it means Louis might hear this one, too.

“I heard your stuff, too,” Harry remarks, in the interest of honesty. Louis’ head whips around, startled. His eyes raised, Harry allows himself a small breathy laugh. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“No - I just -” Louis grabbles, laughs from bemusement. “I didn’t think you would.”

Harry thinks about what he might mean by that but decides against asking.

He listened to a few of Louis’ songs, here and there, when he had the courage. He’d already heard a demo ‘Just Hold On’ when they were together, but the rest were new. They trickled out over time, as Harry tried to get over their break-up. One, in particular, caused a setback of epic proportions: ‘Miss You’. Gemma was forced to confiscate Harry’s phone to stop him from playing it more than he already had. Harry’s ashamed to admit this, but he came so close to calling Louis that day. In the end, Gemma was able to stop him. He wonders now how things might have played out if he had. 

“Don’t worry too much about the album,” Harry says instead, not wanting to start a fight when they’ve been so good. “Whatever you’ve got… it’ll be amazing,” he smiles small, “I know it will.” 

Louis ducks his head, fidgeting with his fringe. The tip of his tongue dances on his bottom lip for a fraction of a second. Even though it’s gone, Harry fixates on the wet lower lip for longer than necessary. He takes a large sip of his drink, burning at the back of his throat. 

They stay silent, amicably so, and Harry listens to the sound of people laughing and splashing below. A sudden urge of longing comes over him, and he wishes so desperately to be down there, happy too. With Louis. If only it weren’t an oxymoron to even think of it. 

How much has he had to drink? 

Louis shakes his head, letting out a huff of a laugh to himself.

“What?” Harry asks, snapping out of his reverie. He’s already smiling, even though he doesn’t know what Louis is laughing about. 

“I just can’t believe we’re dressed as those gay cowboys,” Louis laughs, eyes squinty and head tilts back. “We couldn’t’ve planned it better if we tried.” 

“I know!” Harry exclaims, putting his hands up dramatically. Then, mustering as much smouldering seriousness as he can, “ _I wish I knew how to quit you_.” 

“Your American accent is terrible.” 

“Oh, like you could do better! You can’t even pronounce your t’s and h’s.” 

“Watch it.” Louis squints, but his facade crumbles quickly. 

“Oooh!” Harry chirps up at the sound of music in the adjacent room. It’s halfway through ‘Juice’, but he only just recognised the voice and tempo. Lizzo is hollering to _blame it on my juice_ through the speakers. “I love this song!” He stands up, staggers, and then freezes, eyes wide. That’ll teach him to drink quickly on an empty stomach. “Oh, wow.” he gulps, looks at Louis. “M’drunk, I think.”

“No shit, Haz.” Louis laughs, rising slower so as not to make the same mistake. It vaguely registers in the back of Harry’s mind that he just called him by his old pet name, but he’s not sure exactly how to process that information. It’s for sober Harry to deal with. Yes. 

“Come dance!” Harry implores, and when Louis scrunches up his face in distaste, he pouts pleadingly. “ _Commmmmeeeeee daaaaaaance!_ ” he draws out. He goes to grab Louis’ hand but thinks better of it at the last second. He might be drunk, but he’s not _that_ drunk. Instead, he turns toward the music and shimmies over to it. 

It occurs to him that Louis may have stayed put, but he’s glad when he enters the crowd of dancing people, nudged alongside Mario and Marilyn Monroe, he sees Louis making his way across to join him. Once together, Harry closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and groves to the music. 

“ _Somebody come get this man, I think he got lost in my DMs,_ ” Harry sings along with Lizzo, “ _Whatttt?”_ he cups his hand to his ear, frowning, _“My DMs! You better come get your mannnnn,_ ” he points at Louis, who shakes his head, smiling despite himself. It’s that smile that makes his mouth turn into a V shape, the kind Harry used to love. “ _I think he wanna be way more than friends,”_ Harry winks suggestively, _“what? More than friends! What you want me to say?_ ” 

As the chorus starts up again, Louis begins to actually get into it; nodding his head, swaying back and forth. He may be rhythmically challenged, but he looks good doing it. Harry sings out that it _ain’t my fault_ _that I'm out here makin' news,_ while Louis tries to catch onto the lyrics.

“Harry Edward Styles,” drawls a familiar Valley girl accent. Harry twirls on the spot to see Fembot Kendall, blonde wig and see-through pink nighty, cocking her eyebrow in question. Besides her, Bella Hadid is dressed in a sexified version of Austin Power’s velvet blue suit and ruffled lace necktie. They’ve come in a couples costume, too. 

“Kendall…” Harry points gingerly, shoulders still moving to the beat, “Grace Jenner.” He plays along, totally making up the middle name. Why would he know Kendall’s middle name? The fact that she knows is a surprise in itself. 

“That is _not_ my middle name,” Kendall laughs, tilting her head back. 

“Worth a shot.” He smirks in amusement, meeting Kendall halfway with a warm hug. His arms wrap twice around her tiny frame, and he gets a mouthful of plastic hair, but he doesn’t mind. He’s actually surprised to see Kendall across the pond, so far from her endless summer skies and kale smoothies. But then again, she’s just the sort of person to fly across the world for a party if it’s hosted by the right person. 

“When Cara told me you and Louis would be here, I thought she had to be joking.” She says, her cat-like eyes elite with fascination. “And then I walk over here and see that it’s true.”

“Here we are!” Harry says voice theatrical and sporting jazz hands. 

Kendall snorts, looks at Bella, who purses her lips. “What’s the deal, H? You hated Louis.”

“Real nice,” Louis mutters under his breath, but Harry ignores him, faking a disbelieving laugh.

“What? No, I didn’t.” He edges himself closer to Louis, and awkwardly slides a hand around Louis’ lower back. He can feel Louis’ back stiffen slightly at the contact. They didn’t discuss this sort of thing, but he hasn’t got much of a choice. 

“Uh… yeah, you did,” she scoffs. “All those bitch sessions on the phone and over coffee not ringing a bell?” 

Harry pretends to think back as if he struggles to recall the memory. In truth, he knows exactly what she’s talking about. Although they don’t see one another often anymore, at the time Harry and Louis split up, he was spending a lot more time in LA to distract himself. That involved seeing Kendall talk about her confusingly intimate friendship with Bella Hadid (which they obviously sorted out, if their doting smiles and clasped hands are anything to go by) and Harry’s unresolved feelings about his ex. Sometimes those conversations spiralled, and with Kendall’s catty personality, it often brought out the pettier side of Harry. 

He wishes they could have a moment alone for him to explain. But the fewer people that know about this fake relationship, the better. If it ever got out, people might never trust them again. 

“I seriously don’t get it. The guy dumps you, breaks your heart into a million pieces and you take him back?” 

“I’m right here.” Louis chimes in, glacial in tone. Kendall’s stare flicks to his, and although she’s being rude, Harry feels a fondness for being protected by his friend. 

“No. I mean, it wasn’t like that. It’s complicated.” Harry sighs. 

Kendall makes a huff, folds her arms and arches an eyebrow, exuding attitude. “Whatever. You better have a good explanation for keeping this from me. You can’t _imagine_ what it was like to have to find out _via Instagram_ that you’re back together!” 

“That must’ve been proper traumatic for you,” Louis says, monotone. Harry has a mind to jab him in the shoulder to shut him up, but they’re trying to appear like a real couple, so he doesn’t. He does shoot him a warning glare, though. 

“I’ll tell you all ‘bout it some time, alright?” Harry promises, and he’s awarded a very content grin from Kendall and an approving smile from Bella. He’s going to want all the details about that, in any case. Until then, he can try and come up with a lie that someone as cynical as Kendall might actually believe. 

“Right now though,” he waggles his pointer figure authoritatively. “We dance!” he puts his arms above his head and does a dainty twirl, as Taylor Swift’s ‘The Man’ plays. He notices, while Kendall and Bella laugh and join in, that Louis watches him with what can only be described as melancholy fondness. He has no idea what to make of that. 

***

After much dancing, to the point that Harry’s calf muscles are beginning to ache from the number of slut-drops he’s done, and too many Daiquiris, his tongue permanently strawberry red, he realises he’s lost Louis in the crowd at some point. He abruptly vanishes from the dance floor, leaving behind the group of strangers and friends alike he was with, in search of the other man.

He searches the house from back to front, stumbling on two separate couples having sex, which leads to a lot of awkward apologies and backing out of rooms. Eventually, taking the elevator because he’s afraid he may stumble on the slippery marble staircase, Harry explores the courtyard.

The pool is round, large and lit pink from within, causing ripples of light to bounce off the trees and surrounding people. It glows from afar, drawing Harry near. One half of the water is shaded by an impressive canopy, that leads to the front access of the pool house. On the other side, a wrought-iron gazebo with people beneath it. The cold air mixes with the heat of the water causing steam to rise up in swirls and tufts. The adjacent spa bubbles like a witch’s cauldron, distorting the bodies of the people within. Only their heads are visible, bobbing above the surface, surrounded by foaming water.

In the far corner, on the pool steps, Kendall and Bella, wearing barely-there bikinis, are glued to one another in a gesture that seems too intimate for a public space. Nobody pays them any mind though. Groups of people in various states of undress knee-deep in the shallow end, chatting and playing drinking games. Cara is swimming laps with Ashley trailing behind, laughing.

A mop of chestnut hair and a plaid shirt catches Harry’s eyes, and he practically skips over to the pool’s edge.

“There you are! Was lookin’ for you,” Harry beams down at Louis by the edge of the water He’s leaning back on the palms of his hands, quietly observing those around him. His shoes and socks are abandoned, jeans hitched up around mid-calf and feet dangling in the water. Beside him sits Liam and his girlfriend cuddly silently and Niall, who’s animatedly chatting to Lewis Capaldi. His thick Irish clashes with Lewis’ Scottish one as they interrupt one another, laughing boyishly.

“You were?” Louis’ eyebrows raise, a softness about him. Then his eyes flicker to the people around them. His expression hardens, and he mutters, “Oh, right. People are watching.”

Harry frowns, takes off his boots and throws them across the lawn. He’s too far gone to care for Louis’ attitude.

“Where were you? You disappeared for hours.” Louis asks, kicking his feet back and forth, the water rippling gently. 

“Honestly?” Harry asks, and then lets out a snort. “I don’t know!” 

Louis chuckles. “You do talk some shit when you’ve been drinking,” he muses, shaking his head. His eyes are swimming with reminiscence, nostalgia. “I forgot.” 

Harry bats away the comment with a wave of his hand and a roll of his eyes. He watches the water lapping, enticing him, and makes the split-second decision that it’s time to swim. Shrugging off the cow print vest, he backs away in preparation.

“Harold...” Louis warns, sensing chaos. He’s about to say something else, when Harry runs past him and jumps into the water, fully dressed. “Bloody hell!” he curses, flinching as a massive wave of water splashes his front. Niall whips his head around to the commotion and lets out a cackle. Liam and his girlfriend stop talking for the time it takes Harry to float back up to the surface, and then go back to their conversation. 

“What the hell you do that for!” Louis stares at Harry, affronted, plaid shirt totally soaked. 

“Sorry,” Harry smiles, swimming toward the pool edge where Louis is. The act is laborious, his clothes weighing him down with each stroke. He realises he didn’t take off his cowboy hat before diving in, and it floats nearby. He lunges for it and slaps it onto to Moroccan tiles, causing a large wet splat. “Oh, I still have my socks on,” he thinks aloud, looking down through the water to his soaked feet. 

“You idiot,” Louis says, pulling his feet out of the water and standing. Harry frowns, about to ask where he’s going, but realises a second later that he’s taking off his jeans. He kicks at them, getting tangled among his feet, before finally freeing himself. He slips off his socks, giving Harry a raised eyebrow look, and pulls off his jacket. All he’s left with is the already damp plaid shirt, long enough to cover half his boxers. He stands, awkwardly fiddling with the cuffs, and then sidles down into the water. 

Harry watches the whole affair in silence, standing stock still. The water laps around them both as Louis makes his way closer to Harry. He feels suspended in the moment, the stars watching them, the water holding them. All his mind can comprehend is: _oh my God. Louis is in his boxers._

“Water’s warm,” Louis comments unnecessarily, standing upright in front of Harry. His shirt is totally glued to his chest, the outline of his body staring Harry in the face. His fringe, half dry half wet, sticks up strangely, framing his face. 

“Yeah,” Harry replies blankly, heart thudding unevenly in his ribcage. 

“Oi, loverboys!” Cara shouts, and the dreamy quality shatters. Harry whips around to see Cara swimming over.

“Leave them alone, Squishy,” Ashley hollers after her girlfriend, wading her way across the pool. Louis’ eyebrows raise at the pet name, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Cara stands tall, short wet hair slid back off her forehead and the look of a Bond Girl rising from the ocean in slow-motion. Ashley finally catches up and leaps onto Cara’s back. 

“We challenge you to a battle,” Cara announces theatrically. “Shoulder wars. Come on.” 

“I’d like to see this,” Niall chimes in, and Harry notices a small group has gathered around them. Liam’s girlfriend is in the water now, too, and Liam is on the side with his feet in. Kendall and Bella have detached themselves from one another, and are joining in. Harry realises, with a sudden sense of unease, that they are surrounded by couples. He scans each one of them, taking in their body language. They’re tactile with one another, Liam fiddling with his girlfriend’s fingers, Kendall nuzzling Bella’s neck, Ashley squishing Cara’s cheeks playfully. 

Instinctively, Harry moves his body closer to Louis. With everyone’s watchful eyes, he feels the need to do something, anything to prove themselves. But they haven’t discussed this. And he has no idea how to do this naturally around Louis. 

“Absolutely not,” Louis says, shaking his head. His cheeks are reddening. He’s nervous, too. 

“Afraid you’ll lose, Tomlinson?” Kendall asks, already hitching herself onto Bella’s shoulders. Louis rolls his eyes, refusing to take the bait.

“We just don’t want to embarrass any of you when we destroy you,” Harry counters, giving them a cocky smirk. He sinks lower into the water, feeling the cool lick of it against his neck, before ducking under completely.

Opening his eyes, Harry registers the echo of music underwater. King Princess swoons around him, her words _your pussy is God and I love it_ ricocheting off the tiles. He can see everybody’s lower halves, tinted bluey pink from the pool lights. He sees the strikingly long and toned legs of Bella and Cara, holding up their girlfriends, playing shoulder wars.

He swims toward Louis’ golden legs. The ends of his shirt are billowing out around him, exposing the soft skin of his lower stomach. Liquid courage fuelling him, Harry glides through the water until he’s behind Louis, then, placing his hands on Louis’ hips, pushes himself up out of the water.

“There’s music playing under there,” Harry says into Louis’ ear from behind, eliciting a small yelp from the other man in surprise. Louis spins on the spot, and Harry drops his hands to his side. The intensity of Louis’ stare makes Harry shrink, and he lowers himself into the water, giving him space. He can’t stop the feverish blush flooding to his cheeks, the sting of rejection mortifying him. 

A loud crash distracts them both, as Ashley gives a final shove and Kendall falls into the water. Cara erupts into celebratory cheers, and Ashley jumps into the water with a huge smile on her face.

“Good job, Sprinkles,” Cara coos, giving Ashley a wet kiss on the cheek, that then turns into a long lick of her tongue across her face. Ashley squeals in disgust, splashing her girlfriend. Harry watches as the two women shriek with laughter, play fighting. His chest aches with envy. 

“They’re nauseating,” Louis remarks, quiet enough so that only Harry can hear. It makes the smile slide off Harry’s face instantly. “Nobody is _that_ happy.”

“We were.” Harry counters, angry that Louis has to be so negative. 

Louis stills. “Yeah, well,” he looks off, eyelashes dripping. His jaw clenches. “Look how that turned out.” 

Harry’s heart sinks. He reaches for Louis’ hand under the water, but Louis abruptly jerks away, playing it off as if he’s decided to swim over to Niall and Liam. Nobody else would notice, but it hurts like hell.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, lowering his voice. Louis looks him dead in the eyes. Sensing the looks of others on them, particularly Niall, who has turned away from his conversation, nervous, Louis forces a softer expression. 

“Nothin’, baby,” he says, the affectionate term tacked on like an acidic lie. Harry’s gut churns. 

“Don’t lie.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” Louis cusses, turning his back on Harry entirely. “Just leave me alone, will you?” 

Harry, feeling wounded and a bit confused about how things turned icy so quickly, looks to Niall for support. The Irishman shrugs, silently telling Harry he doesn’t know why Louis is angry. Liam is looking between Louis and Harry, an expression of concern etched on his face.

“Why do you always do this?” Harry asks quietly, standing closer now so that they won’t be overheard. “Shut off like that.” 

“I wish you just wouldn’t,” Louis cuts across, hissing under his breath. He looks up at Harry, dewdrops of water making him sparkle. His eyes dart between the people around them, and he makes a show of saying, “ _Babe._ ” 

Harry grimaces. “Don’t do that.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Kendall asks, swimming over with a gleeful look in her eyes. 

The entire evening so far falls away, dissolving in the chlorine. Harry knew, before it happened, that it would only take something small to destroy the delicate connection they began to forge when the video leaked weeks ago. He was just hoping he’d be proven wrong. 

“Go sort yourselves out, will ya?” Niall mutters under his breath, forcing a large artificial grin for everyone else’s benefit. Harry nods minutely and swims to the poolside, pulling himself out. He knows he must look bizarre, dripping wet and fully dressed, but he doesn’t care. Louis waits for a second, but when Niall gives him a pressing look, he gets out as well. 

Harry doesn’t tell Louis where he’s going, just walks directly across the lawn to the pool house. The squelch of his soaking socks slap against the tiles, and his teeth begin to chatter now he’s out of the water and in the cold air. He checks through the window that it’s empty, before opening the door and going inside. 

“Don’t call me that,” Harry says softly, the second the door closes behind them, and they’re alone. Neither one of them has bothered to turn the lights on, the outdoor light shining through the windows enough to make out each other’s features. For a pool house, there’s deceptively no pool equipment in here. Instead, there’s a large couch and matching chairs, and what looks like a flat-screen TV above a faux fireplace.

“What?” Louis asks, not matching Harry’s gentility, but nearly spitting the question. He’s standing there, shivering slightly, and dripping onto the decorative tiled floor.

“Don’t fucking… don’t do that,” Harry runs a hand through his dripping wet hair, pulling it out of his eye line. “Act like you don’t know.” 

“What, so I can’t call you ‘baby’ but you can get handsy like that in front of everyone?” Louis asks, closing off his body by folding his dripping arms across his chest. He’s just standing there, half-naked and soaking wet and that’s not even the most bizarre thing about this situation. 

“It isn’t the same thing. You used ‘baby’ against me. You were trying to hurt me.” Harry’s voice breaks, Louis notices. His eyes soften, for a split second, then return to stone.

Louis grits his teeth. “And what, it doesn’t hurt me? When you touch me like that for show?” 

“How is that any different to you grabbing my hand for photos?” he counters, and by the look on Louis’ face, he knows his argument is compelling. “You knew we’d have to do this at some point. _You_ agreed to this,” Harry points his forefinger for emphasis. “S’not my fault if you can’t stand to touch me. I get that I must fucking repulse you, but you’ll just have to get over yourself.” 

“That’s so _not_ fucking -” Louis cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He breathes out shakily, trying to calm himself. “Why can’t you just admit that you’re sorry?”

“Because I didn’t _do_ anything wrong!” Harry snaps. 

“Fuck!” Louis exclaims, grinding his teeth. “You can be such an arrogant son of a bitch!” 

“Whatever, Louis,” Harry can’t think properly. His mind is fuzzy, and his judgements are all off. All he knows is he’s angry; so angry he can feel it coursing through him. “You’re such a child.”

“Me!” Louis barks. “That’s bloody rich, that is.” 

Harry lets out a cold laugh. It bursts out of him unintentionally. He’s definitely a little bit drunk. Or a lot.

“What’s so funny?” Louis asks, folding his arms. He’s narrowing his eyes at him, with his jaw set firmly.

“Was just thinkin’...” Harry’s smile fades, turning almost sinister. “I wrote ‘Two Ghosts’ during the band you know,” There’s a pause, Louis is silent, so Harry continues. “The last year... Even then. _Even then_ I knew you’d leave.” 

“I can’t believe you just said that.” Louis is calm, scarily so. 

“What? S’true,” Harry slurs, feeling a surge of confidence. He can see himself, from the outside, falling apart. Until this moment he was sure he could hold things together for both of them. Now all he wants to do is tear it apart. “I don’t know why I’ve been pretending we can do this. You were right. We can’t stand one another.” 

Harry swears he can see Louis wince at his words, but he ignores it, swallows hard, and gives Louis a determined stare.

“It isn’t true,” Louis shakes his head vigorously. “I wasn’t ever going to leave you. You think –” he stops, breathing heavily. “You really believe you have it all figured out, but you don’t, Harry.”

“Oh, yeah?” Harry scoffs, but he isn’t amused. “What am I missin’? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, the minute I think we’ve gotten somewhere, you do a 180 and treat me like shit. I’m bloody sick of it!” 

“You’re so fucking clueless sometimes!” Louis snaps, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. He does a half turn, almost paces toward the door then he thinks better of it. Walking directly up to Harry, he stops just short of two feet in front of him. Although he’s shorter, he commands dominance with his strong gaze. 

“You think it’s been easy for me?” Louis asks, his voice cracking. He doesn’t break his eye contact, even though Harry wants him to. “Do you think I enjoy being like this?”

“I don’t know, Louis!” Harry raises his hands, gesturing vaguely before letting them fall to his side dramatically. Drops of water fly everywhere. “ _Don’t you_?” He steps forward, hoping to intimidate, but Louis isn’t backing down. Instead, their height difference is noticeably enhanced, with Louis staring fiercely up at Harry. He smells like chlorine and vanilla. 

“No!” Louis retorts loudly, right into Harry’s face. He can feel the hot breath on his face. Louis continues, more levelled and at a near-whisper with an anger Harry’s never heard before, “D’you think you’re a _dream_ , do you? You haven’t exactly been a walk in the fucking park to be around, either.” 

“I hate you.” Harry’s voice is hoarse from all the talking. He’s really gone and done it now, said the thing he can’t take back. He knows it, too, because Louis visibly flinches. As if Harry’s slapped him across the face. He can practically see the imprint on his red cheek. The worst part is he knows he’s lying. He’s finally stooping to the level of saying something dishonest with the intent of hurting Louis. He hasn’t done that in a long time. 

“No, you don’t,” Louis answers, remarkably calm. 

Harry’s heart is thudding incessant in his chest. He feels hot and cold - the alcohol burning from the inside, his clothes wet and freezing stuck to his skin. He can’t tell if he’s numb from that, or from the sheer emotions running through his body. 

Seconds tick by, painfully slow and too fast at once. The two men stare at one another, chests heaving with the adrenaline of the moment. 

Harry isn’t sure which one of them initiates it, only that they seem to move in tandem. Mind wiped clean, Harry rushes forward, lips colliding with Louis’ in a feverish kiss. The momentum between them is so strong that they simultaneously grab for one another, struggling to keep balance. Harry grips Louis’ soggy collar, pulling him closer. Louis’ hands cup Harry’s waist, digging into the flesh there.

It isn’t their first kiss, but it feels like one. It’s got all the ingredients: the yearning building in Harry’s stomach, the dizziness of Louis’ touch. It isn’t gentle like their first kiss was, though. When they were teenagers and so afraid of crossing the line. This feels like making up for lost time. Like they can’t be in more of a hurry. And it also feels a little angry, all their built-up frustration expelled through their bodies.

Harry isn’t cold anymore, the heat of Louis’ lips setting him on fire. He parts his lips, feels the swipe of Louis’ tongue in his mouth. It’s wet and intense, and Harry’s going weak at the knees. They fumble together, Louis’ fingers undoing the buttons of Harry’s shirt with expertise. Harry responds by helping him tug off the shirt, not caring if he pops buttons. 

With Louis taking the lead, they stumble to the nearest couch. Harry practically falls back on the linen couch, winding himself in the motion. He lets out a gruff sound, breaking their connection for a split second. 

“You okay?” Louis asks hasty, breathing fast, hovering above Harry, uncertain. Harry nods quickly, hand cupping the nape of Louis’ neck and pulling him down on top of him eagerly. Their lips meet again with a sigh, flooding Harry’s body with a tingling warmth. 

It’s as if every nerve in his body is on high alert. He can feel Louis’ stubble tickling his chin, taste the beer Louis’ been drinking all night. Louis’ shirt grazes Harry’s naked stomach, tickling cool and wet, causing his muscles to tense. Louis thighs straddling him provide a warm pressure pinning him down. He lets his hands explore, keenly sliding up Louis’ thighs and to the dip between his lower back and his arse, pressing Louis against him firmly.

Louis lets out a soft moan into Harry’s lips, causing Harry’s skin to shudder with arousal. All he wants is to hear that sound, over and over. He slips his fingers under Louis’ boxer shorts teasingly, playing with the elastic waistband, and Louis’ kiss turns bruising. 

An abrupt banging of fist on the door shatters the moment, and Louis and Harry jerk apart. 

“Oi lovebirds!” shouts a drunk Niall, “Quit makin’ a baby and come join us!” 

Harry stares between himself and Louis on the couch, becoming aware of how close they just came to having sex. Weren’t they just in the middle of a row? How did they get from that to this? _Jesus Christ._

“Fucking hell,” Louis curses, voicing Harry’s thoughts exactly. He fiddles with his hair a second, before giving up. It was already a mess before they started snogging anyway. 

Without saying another word, they both rise from the couch. Harry feels the rush of blood, almost swooning from the physical disorientation of the moment. The linen has imprints of their wet bodies all over it, making Harry blush. This could quite possibly be the biggest fuck up he’s made in a long time. 

Taking a sharp inhale, Louis opens the door to reveal an oblivious Niall standing on the threshold. 

“We can’t make babies, dickhead,” Louis comments, plastering on a jovial persona. He doesn’t wait for Niall to register their flustered appearances, walking right past him and back out to the pool. Harry figures he should follow. 

“You two alright?” Niall asks, looking them up and down as he walks. He looks at Harry, who is having a harder time putting on his poker face. He feels shame coursing through his body, and he has to avert his eyes. 

“Yeah, we talked it out,” Louis lies, forcing a smile. He turns his back on them both, walking stridently ahead. “Don’t worry, lad.” 

Harry knows he’s going through the motions of walking, one foot in front of the other, but he feels like he’s floating off someplace else, far away from Louis, far away from everything. 

He just kissed Louis Tomlinson for the first time in three years. He feels for a fraction of a second that he may break. That everything he worked for to get over him - all the crying, the stages of grief, the songwriting, the attempts to date other people – were for nothing. It’s all been undone with a single kiss from the very same person he tried to forget.

Harry just kissed Louis Tomlinson, and with the ghost of his touch still on his lips, he wants to do it again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References
> 
> ★ I based a lot of aesthetic choices inside Cara's house on the [Open Door video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAth0IKzfTM) she did with AD.   
> ★ Niall’s pirate costume is based on [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/f6853fc58ae415fc369ae747e6c7b0fb/tumblr_inline_oq4neeimgG1syjaqp_540.gif) spoof music video with James Corden.  
> ★ Kendall’s Halloween costume is based on a [real costume](https://hips.hearstapps.com/hmg-prod.s3.amazonaws.com/images/gettyimages-1054556222.jpg?crop=1xw:1xh;center,top&resize=320:*) she wore. Bella’s is based on [this](https://i.imgur.com/CbEkgnr.jpg).  
> ★ Cara and Ashley were a [real couple](https://www.insider.com/cara-delevingnes-and-ashley-benson-relationship-timeline-2019-7) (though recently they’ve split). They did, in fact, call each other Sprinkles and [Squishy](http://www.justjaredjr.com/2019/08/10/ashley-benson-gets-squishy-tattoo-for-girlfriend-cara-delevingne/).


	8. Half Moon Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is being kind to one another and taking the time to look after themselves during this very difficult time. I know something as trivial as fanfiction seems a bit frivolous right now, but my hope is that it's as nice of a distraction for you as it is for me to write! My inbox/Direct Messages on [Tumblr](http://harryrainbows.tumblr.com) are always open if you ever want someone to talk to!
> 
> Also, sorry this was a bit late. Things are hectic at uni and also it was my birthday so!!!!!

November twilight over Hampstead Heath comes slow and steady, a pink hue over the inlet. The walking path near Harry’s house is covered in red, orange and yellow leaves, crunching underfoot as they walk in silence. It’s beautiful, but Harry is distracted. Instead of admiring the sunset, he’s checking his phone every five seconds for something from Louis. He’s been doing this for the last few days since he sent the foreboding but incredibly necessary text the morning after the Halloween party. _We should probably talk,_ he said. That was almost a week ago, and still no reply. Complete radio silence. Nothing.

“Expecting a call from someone?” Gemma asks, a coy smile on her face. Her hands are in her jacket pockets, and her dark hair is pulled back out of her face. It’s pretty chilly out, and her breaths come out in a visible fog. 

“What? Oh, no.” Harry looks up from his empty lock screen, discouraged. “Not exactly.” He shoves his phone in his pocket, determined not to look for at least another few minutes.

“You know, there’s this little feature that means your phone makes a sound if you’ve got a message,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “So you don’t have to check your phone every second.” She smiles, giving her brother a gentle nudge. “It’s genius, really.”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Harry laughs, self-deprecatingly. His cheeks go pink, heating up with embarrassment. “M’bein’ rude.”

“Nah, you’re not. You’re just a bit spacey. You okay, little brother?” she asks, softer.

“Yeah. Things are just… weird right now.”

“Let me guess, a special someone who’s name starts with ‘L’?”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Yeah, with Louis.”

“Go on, spit it out.”

He mulls it over. Where does he even begin? Does it start with the video? Does it start with the kiss in the pool house? Or was it well before that? The more he thinks about it, the more he believes Louis has been on his mind for a lot longer than he realised.

With the Halloween party still fresh in his mind, Harry has spent many a restless night reliving the kiss. What it could mean. What will happen now because of it. He loves Gemma, he does, but there are some things you simply cannot discuss with your older sister. This is one of them. 

“I guess I’m just not sure where I stand with him,” he decides, keeping it vague. They’ve approached the lake, and the setting sun reflects on the surface like a mirror. Up ahead, a rickety park bench, covered in damp leaves, is their unspoken destination.

“Where is it you want to stand with him?” she asks, eyebrow quirked. She reaches the seat first, and taking one hand out of her pocket, uses the cuff of her jacket to push the muck off.

Harry pouts, helping her. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.” Gemma stands straight, admiring her handiwork. Then she turns and sits down on the bench, smiling contentedly out at the view.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Harry asks, frowning deeply. He hates how painfully observant she can be. Sometimes, his sister (and mother) know him better than he knows himself.

Gemma smiles, pats the spare space next to her for Harry to join her. He does.

“Do you remember when you first met Louis?”

“Yes,” Harry answers as if that’s obvious. He couldn’t forget even if he tried.

“You fancied him so much, it was so obvious. A bit embarrassing to watch, actually.” Gemma lets out a laugh.

“Shut up.” Harry blushes, not sure where Gemma is going with this.

“Mum and I just had to keep our mouths shut and let you figure it out,” Gemma muses, a wistful look of the past in her eyes. Harry groans, looking away. “I think the thing we noticed most, was how happy you were. You were always an extroverted kid, mind, and bloody boisterous when you wanted to be.” Gemma fake shudders and Harry gives her a playful jab. “But it was different with Louis. You got… weirdly shy. And quiet. You used to go all red whenever we mentioned him.”

Harry covers his face, muffling the laugh, in spite of himself, at the memory. He remembers how it felt to fall in love for the first time, but he never knew what it was like for those watching. 

“You’ve been doing that recently, you realise.” She smiles minutely. “You get all dazed and ditsy. You’re a proper adult and you’re acting like a kid again.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. He goes to speak, to deny it, but he realises he can’t. Being around Louis these last few weeks have felt strange, and at times, painful. But they’ve also been exhilarating. Exciting. Gemma’s right. Even though it’s been years, even though they’ve hurt one another, even though they drive one another mad… Harry can’t deny there’s still something there. Not after the kiss.

“I’d talk to you and it’d be a full minute before you even noticed, you’d be off in your own little world.” Gemma looks away, smiling thoughtfully. Her expression changes slightly, and she takes out her left hand from her pocket, deliberately tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Kind of like how you haven’t noticed my engagement ring at all just now.”

Harry does a double-take, eyes going wide, all thoughts of Louis going out the window. On her finger, an understated but beautiful diamond ring. “Your what!” he exclaims, leaping up to stand, full of energy.

Gemma laughs at his melodramatic response, head tilted back. She can’t contain her beaming grin.

“Holy shit, Gem!” He grabs for her hand, staring at the ring. “Michal proposed? How did I not see this?” He twists her finger to and fro to get a better look, the jewel glinting dimly in the evening light. “Does Mum know? When did it happen? How!” He doesn’t wait for answers, too flabbergasted to hear them anyway.

There will be time to think of Louis, what the kiss might mean and Harry’s changing feelings. But right now, all he wants to do is hug his sister. And so he does, sweeping her up in a huge, enveloping embrace. She laughs into his chest, and he twists her around on the spot, yelling variations of ‘finally!’ and ‘my big sister is getting married!’

A jogger runs past, looking at the siblings with a curious expression. Harry squeezes Gemma harder, despite her protesting that she can’t breathe. He closes his eyes, smiling blindly, feeling the trickle of a tear run down his cheek. A small part of him feels a pang of jealousy. But he won’t allow himself to even entertain it, not for a second. _Happy tears,_ he convinces himself. _They’re happy tears._

*******

_You can be such an arrogant son of a bitch._

Harry stares at Louis’ words from the other night, written on the otherwise blank page in front of him. He doesn’t know why, but the words haven’t left his mind since he heard them, and he just had to write them down.

He strums his guitar, fiddling with a melody. Mitch had sent him an audio recording a few days before, the entire instrumental to a song, just waiting for lyrics. Harry listened to it while brushing his teeth, instantly impressed. He texted Mitch that it was perfect. It didn’t need changing. It just needed words.

His house has never felt more empty, the music echoing around as a taunting reminder of his loneliness. Before, when he had nothing to lose, he didn’t mind coming home to nothing. To no one. Now, restlessness is starting to set in. 

“ _I’m just an arrogant son of a bitch_ ,” he mumbles in key. “ _Can’t admit when I’m sorry_.” He stops, silently impressed with himself. He quickly puts aside the guitar and jots down the music notes, along with the lyrics. He allows himself to sit there, alone in his big house, and ruminate in all the feelings catching up to him since Halloween.

He’s been avoiding the churning in his belly, shutting off any time intrusive memories invade his brain. After seeing Gemma, and not hearing back from his text, he effectively decided it was better to just pretend Louis didn’t exist. It’s worked, mostly. Except that Louis started infiltrating his dreams so that while he’s able to ignore the nagging feeling well enough in his waking hours, his nights were getting difficult.

> _Don’t call me ‘baby’ again,_
> 
> _You got your reasons_

He thinks of smiling and laughing with Louis throughout the night of the 31st. He’d been so sure they’d somehow broken through a barrier, managed to at least be friends, even if just on the surface. Was it all for show?

He thinks of the moment it went wrong, not totally sure how or why, and the way it crumbled so quickly. He can see the faces of the onlookers, Kendall’s suspicious eyes, Niall’s warning stare, Louis’ gritted teeth. What did he do wrong? What can Louis be thinking now? Is he thinking of his lips, as Harry is thinking of his? Or is he remembering Harry’s spite? He hopes, in some desperation, that the impression he left from the party was not one of regret.

He writes his feelings down, weaving them into poetry, into lyrics:

> _I just hope you see me_
> 
> _In a little better light_

The envy of the other couples is a stone in his stomach. The moment he touched Louis in the pool, and the way the other man recoiled. And then, how different it had been the second they were alone together. How could he be a shining, illuminating presence – so infectiously happy – and then so cold, and silent?

> _Do you think it's easy_
> 
> _Being of the jealous kind?_
> 
> _'Cause I miss the shape of your lips_
> 
> _You’ll win, it’s just a trick_

The chorus is starting to come together, so he returns to the guitar, strumming a very basic melody as a foundation. He makes sure to open a voice memo to record himself. 

> _Don’t call me “baby” again,_
> 
> _It’s hard for me to go home_

He stops, staring at the space around him. This house, which has always felt grand, feels suddenly, and painfully, too big for one person. For the first time since he moved in, newly single and heart bruised, his house doesn’t feel like a home.

“ _And be so lonely…_ ” he says quietly to himself.

***

When it reaches day nine of no contact, Harry has had enough. He won’t take no for an answer. He grabs his phone, paces back and forth before taking the plunge. He sends the following text to Louis: _Meet me at 7pm_ _9 Conduit St, Mayfair_ _. Dress nicely._ After he tells Jane his plan and that if she wants to organise photographers for the entrance of the restaurant, then she can. This is part of their job, after all.

It’s begun raining outside, fresh slates of it hitting the sidewalk. People scurry into underground tube entrances, run to find shelter beneath shop pergolas, or, for those prepared, pull out umbrellas and walk leisurely through the London streets. Double-decker red buses splash waves of water up out of gutters and onto footpaths, and the lights reflect off puddles, green circles for pedestrians, neon OPEN signs. 

Harry arrives at Sketch London at exactly three minutes to seven. He lingers in the backseat of his car, watching the water distort his view of the restaurant from the curb. With a deep breath in, he thanks his driver, and thrusts himself out into the bustling and wet sidewalk.

Without an umbrella, his hair is saturated within seconds. In the time it takes for him to stride the couple meters into the entrance of the restaurant, he is nearly soaked to the skin. His pink suit jacket is damp, and his dress shoes notably shinier. 

The maître d’ at the entrance rushes to his aid, unpeeling his jacket from behind with ease and scuttling off to put it into the locker-room. Harry thanks them, leaving him minus a layer of clothing, but at least the slightly sheer pearlescent shirt is dry underneath. He feels slightly exposed without the blazer, knowing Louis will be able to see the ghost of his tattoos through the fabric, but then again, that is why he chose it (even if he’s denied this fact to himself).

He gives his name and time of reservation and the maître d’, nodding leads him into one of the dining rooms. The Gallery – which Harry specifically chose of all the elaborate thematic rooms on offer – glows pink upon entry. The low hum of soft chatter, mingled with the clinking of cutlery on plates and footsteps of waiters on the spongy carpet, create a calm atmosphere. The grand room, with its timeless quality, takes sugary pink to the maximum. The walls are painted blush, the bar on the furthest wall backed with a glossy tiled feature wall in coral. The most iconic imagery of the place, the rows of shell lounge chairs and dining booths with gold trim, are lined up like soft pink tulips in bloom on a garden bed of marble floors.

Harry eases into a booth in the far corner, near the art that gives the Gallery its name – framed prints by David Shrigley perfectly placed row upon row. The velvet of the chairs is plush to the touch, and Harry finds himself nervously running the palm of his hand back and forth against the arm of it. He waits.

When Louis arrives, Harry rises from his chair and stands awkwardly in wait. He realises as Louis approaches their table, that he doesn’t know how to greet him.

“Bloody raining cats and dogs out there,” Louis laments, shrugging off his jacket, throwing it haphazardly onto one of the upholstered lounge chairs. He shakes out his wet hair like a shaggy dog. He catches the stunned expression of their waiter and blinks rapidly. The waiter takes that as his queue to leave. Louis waits until the man is well out of earshot before he turns to Harry. “Hi,” he says in a hush, darting his eyes around, self-conscious. His fringe is dripping water onto his cheeks. “Feels like I should be whisperin’ in here.”

Harry lets out a laugh, feels the ease of tension in his belly, like a fist uncoiling around his nerves. All that silence, all that cold unknowing, and Louis waltzes right back into Harry’s life with boundless energy. He should be angry – furious even – but Louis’ light is so bright Harry can’t do anything but admire it. 

“You’re okay,” Harry promises, trying not to smile. “Talk as loud as you want.”

Louis gives a curt nod but seems not to take on Harry’s advice. He sits down in the chair opposite Harry, the table between them. He gives Harry a pointed look before he realises he’s still standing. He quickly stumbles back into the velvet cushion. 

“Sorry about the ‘dress nicely’ stuff,” Harry says, “This place has a dress code.”

"Yeah, that or you’re just trying to get me in a suit.”

Harry smiles but doesn’t deny it. “You look… good,” he says, blushing. Everything is tinted pink in here, so he hopes he won’t be caught out.

“Thanks. Feel like a drenched rat, but.” Louis dips his head, foot-tapping rapidly under the table.

“Nice weather… for ducks,” Harry muses dumbly.

Louis’ lip curls in amusement, but he forces it down, pursing his mouth shut. He grabs the menu and opens it, not looking up at Harry once. Harry watches him read, his eyes slowly scanning across the page. When his eyebrows raise, he looks up at Harry, who is already staring intently back. He falters a moment, but recovers.

“This place is fancy,” Louis observes.

“Yeah, er, sorry,” Harry trails off, straightening his shoulders and frowning to himself. “This way we won’t be disturbed.”

Louis nods, a sage expression on his face. “Thought the whole point was for people to see us,” he mutters, eyebrow quirked.

“Afterward, maybe,” Harry counters, ignoring the pang Louis’ words produce in his stomach, like a stitch in his side from running too quickly. Jane specified a time at which they were going to be seen leaving the restaurant together by photographers at the end of the evening. Both had agreed through their managers, not speaking of it directly to one another until this moment. “Not now. This is for us.”

“Us,” Louis repeats, meeting Harry’s intense stare with his own. Harry wishes he understood what it meant. “And what exactly is ‘us’?”

Harry blinks, affronted. He opens his mouth, gapes really, unsure how to answer.

“Louis…” he says it like someone would say ‘please’ as if to ask – beg really – not to do this right now. The whole situation is so unreadable, it’s impossible to say how this evening may end. Harry doesn’t want to start fighting three seconds into their meal. He doesn’t want to fight at all if he can help it.

A perfectly timed waitress approaches their little corner and asks if they’re ready to order drinks. Both choose something off the bar menu in a daze, hoping the woman will leave soon. Once she does, the tension between them has built to unprecedented proportions.

“So…” Harry begins eyes on his menu. He cannot decide between the Wild King prawn dish or the multi-coloured gnocchi. He thinks he might choose the pasta dish, simply out of curiosity. What exactly does multi-coloured gnocchi look like, anyway?

“So,” Louis agrees. He avoids Harry’s eyes when he asks, “How’ve you been? You know… since we last spoke?”

“Fine,” Harry answers, then, feeling brave, “confused.”

Louis perks up, meeting his gaze. He chews on his lower lip. “Yeah, er, me too, to be honest.”

“I don’t get why you didn’t call. Or text,” Harry says with a frown.

“What?” Louis stumbles over his words. He wasn’t expecting Harry’s candour so early in the night.

“After.” Harry doesn’t want to refer directly to the kiss. He swallows heavily. “If you were mad, I would understand, but –”

“Mad? Why would I be mad?” Louis asks, looking genuinely confused.

Harry’s cheeks redden to the colour of his drink. “I dunno,” he mumbles, wondering if he’s misread something. He takes a deep breath. They could spend the entire evening dancing around the subject – they’re good at that. Avoiding. But Harry doesn’t want to do that again. What’s the point of redoing this – even if just for appearances – if they don’t try and do better than the first time around? After the days of painful silence, Harry can’t return to that. He simply can’t. He needs to know where he stands.

“I think…” Harry begins, pulling his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, thoughtful. He lets go, wringing his hands, uncertain. “I’ve been thinking… since...” He clears his throat, averting his eyes. Suddenly, the crisp edge of the porcelain plate fascinates him. “Since the, uh, other night. That we should probably… establish some… ground rules. Around this whole thing.” He takes a breath in, out, then in again. “Y’know, so we don’t… confuse things.”

“Right,” Louis says. He sucks on his teeth. “Probably for the best. Don’t want any more pool house related incidents.”

“No, well.” Harry goes pink. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking – that that’s precisely what he wants, what he desires. What he’s been thinking about every night as he lay in bed, his hand cruising down his stomach, slipping under the waistband of his boxers. Afterwards, the pooling shame, the churning feeling that he’s done something forbidden, the embarrassment that Louis still has that effect on him lingers hot in his stomach. Every time he thinks it’ll be the last – the orgasm bringing him to a high only for him to crash back down again – he finds himself picturing Louis’ swollen lips and languid movements and he’s right back to where he started. 

He blinks back to the present, shaking away his trance. “Exactly.”

“Makes sense.” Louis nods, appearing somewhat vacant.

The conversation lapses, silence falling like a heavy blanket over them both. Their drinks arrive, and Harry hyper fixates on his, wondering if he stares intently enough, he may see the ice melt in real-time. He chose something called ‘Red Fondness’, which true to its name, is a deep pink drink on ice. Louis’ drink, in a fluted glass, is a liquid gold honey colour, sparkling with carbonation. 

“What’s yours?” Harry decides to ask, watching Louis inspect his own glass. He takes a sip, shrugs his approval as if to say ‘not bad’.

“Er…” Louis looks at the drink menu. He reads directly off it, “Coffee infused Mezcal, Verde Momento Mezcal, Yellow Chartreuse, Eucalyptus sugar syrup, citrus and soda.” He looks up at Harry, taking another sip. “I just picked it ‘cos it’s got a shit tonne of Mezcal, basically.” A beat. “You?”

“Vodka, St Germain, red fruit shrub, lemon, rose lemonade,” Harry reads out.

“We’ve never been very good at this talking thing, have we?” Louis remarks wryly, clearly uninterested in swapping drink information. Harry looks up and is met with a vulnerable expression on the other man’s face. Every fight born from miscommunication, every cold shoulder made from misunderstanding, plays behind his blue eyes.

“Not so much,” Harry agrees, trying to see the humour in it. He wonders if they had the tools, back then, to communicate without their egos getting in the way, if they may have made it. Entertaining the idea for any longer than a second is ludicrous. That was then, this is now. And now is all they have to work with.

“Well,” Harry huffs. “We never actually discussed what we were comfortable with. Y’know. Before we started, er, ‘dating’.” He uses air quotes to emphasise his meaning. “And I feel really bad, y’know, about the way I acted… on Halloween.” He grimaces, thinking of how drunk he was in the pool, his inhibitions slipping away. It was careless to touch Louis so casually, in front of everyone, without warning him first. It was selfish. After all, try as he might tell himself it was for show, he knew it satisfied some twisted yearning, deep down, after all these years, to be near Louis. To touch him. To kiss him.

“Don’t apologise.” Louis cringes, then looks down at his lap. Harry wonders how he can continue to say the wrong thing, even when he’s trying his hardest to do it right.

“But Louis, I really _am_ sorry,” he implores. “I shouldn’t have…”

“I get it.” Louis cuts him off. “So no touching then.”

Harry nods in agreement, afraid if he speaks, he’ll say something that will make Louis angrier than he already is. There was a time where Harry did everything right – said all the right things, did all the right things. He wonders if he’ll ever get to that place again.

“Pet names are okay?” Harry asks, and Louis nods. Both agree, silently, not to discuss the root of their argument the other weekend, and Harry’s refusal to be called ‘baby’. In the light of day, he understands why Louis might have to call him that around others. “Uhm, if we have to.”

“If we have to,” Louis agrees, almost bitter. “What about holdin’ hands? We sort of can’t avoid that.”

“No, I suppose not. I’m fine with it…” Harry looks up through his lashes. “If you are.”

“Yeah, s’fine,” Louis says, noncommittal, givingHarry absolutely nothing to work with. _What is he thinking?_ “And what happens if we’re…” Louis clears his throat, checks briefly if anyone may be looking their way. He returns his gaze to Harry, who feels exposed by the eye contact. “What happens if someone doesn’t believe it? Like, what do we do then?”

“We improvise.” Harry shrugs. “Worst case scenario, we bring out the PDA.” He thrills at the idea and tries to steady his heart rate. He says what he says next more to himself than to Louis. “Emergencies _only_.”

“How will we know?” Louis brushes his fringe out of his eye line with a swipe of his knuckles. “I mean, how can we say that it’s an ‘emergency’ in front of people?”

Harry mulls it over. “Codeword.” 

Louis lets out a laugh, then registering Harry’s knitted brows, his face falls. “Oh, you’re being serious.”

“How else are we going to do it?” Harry asks, then with a slight smirk, “Telepathically?”

Louis shakes his head, smiling to himself. “Alright, Harold, and what’s our code word going to be, then?”

“You choose,” Harry says, folding his arms. Louis raises his eyebrows, challengingly. It occurs to Harry, with a jolt, that they’re flirting. He pushes the realisation to the back of his mind. Ignores the rational voice in his mind warning him to backtrack. That it would complicate things, more than they already have.

“Okay, er…” Louis relaxes back into his seat, looking up at the ceiling. Something clicks, and he gives Harry a very coy smile before saying, “Half-moon.”

Harry doesn’t understand for a moment, why that phrase, why that look on his face. The term, aside from the obvious, sounds familiar. He can’t quite place it. He stares blankly at Louis, trying to place the name in the series of memories he has with his ex. There are so many, it’s hard to sort through them. Until. Something vague, and soft around the edges, comes to mind. _Oh._

“As in …?” Harry prompts, and Louis nods. They look at one another with such intensity that Harry wants to look away. He doesn’t.

“Half Moon Beach, yes.”

It’s years ago now, lifetimes, really. For Harry’s 20th birthday, Louis took him on a holiday to Jamaica, before all the chaos and grind of the Where We Are tour began in April the same year. To think of it now, they were just kids, Harry realises. Kids in love. They’d felt so grown up, going away together on a pseudo-honeymoon. They spent their afternoons lazy in the sun, holding hands in secluded places, no one recognising them. One evening they stumbled upon a small sheltered beach – Half Moon. Under the stars, the slow tranquil lap of the waves coming in off the ocean, it was magical. Once they realised just how private the cove was, they’d gone for a naked swim. One of them remarked, Harry can’t remember now who, that they’d never had sex in a public place. 

Snapshots of how it felt out in the open, their bodies pushed into the sand, saltwater on Louis’ lips, the sea air kissing his inner thighs and the softest part of his neck. Harry’s mind is inundated.

Harry forces himself out of his reverie by taking a large sip of his Red Fondness. Trying to recover, he runs his fingers through his hair, tussling it around.

“So, er.” Harry frowns fixedly, clearing his throat. Louis looks amused by the effect he’s had. _The bastard,_ Harry thinks. _He’s absolutely torturing me_. “So unless we say ‘half-moon’, there’s absolutely no kissing, no touching, nothing.” 

“Nothing,” Louis promises, with a glint of devilishness in his eyes. And a little of something else, too. Something that looks a lot like lust. _Rules are made for Louis Tomlinson to break them_ , Harry thinks. God, he hopes he breaks them. 

Four cocktails, two main courses, one shared dessert and far too many stories later, Harry and Louis are ready to leave. A text from Jane assures them that photographers are stationed discreetly outside Sketch London, and will be ready to document their exit together. Feeling giddy, and a little of something he doesn’t want to name (not when it influences weighs heavy on his conscience), Harry leads the charge.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low as he slides his arm into his pink blazer. The fabric is no longer damp, but surprisingly warm. He wonders if that’s a regular service for this place.

“Ready,” Louis assures, fists in his own jacket pockets. He tilts his head a little to the side and outstretches his hand for Harry to take. 

Harry hesitates, remembering the last time they held hands. “You sure?” he mouths, and Louis’ lips twitch.

“Half-moon, right?” He says, wryly, but with an edge that is almost undetectable. _He’s nervous,_ Harry realises. 

“Right,” Harry laughs, poorly concealing his own unease.

He slips his hand into Louis’, ignoring the jolt of adrenaline coursing through him at the contact. He tightens his jaw and looks ahead, removing himself emotionally from the moment. 

It’s a modest amount of photographers, discreetly lined outside the restaurant. The second the door opens and they recognise Harry and Louis’ faces, they’re stirred into action. Surging forward, the small group shove cameras in their faces, flashing in bright bursts that burn Harry’s retina when he looks directly at it. And then the gaudy comments – a bellow of _over here, loverboys!_ And _come on, give us a kiss!_ But mostly their names echo around, sounding foreign on the mouths of strangers. 

Harry keeps his eyes trained to the ground, focuses on the slick oil-like surface after hours of rain. He feels Louis’ hand tighten in his grasp and he squeezes back reassuringly. His heartbeat quickens in his chest, and an overall tingling feeling ripples across his skin. It’s like an itch he desperately wants to scratch, countless hours of tension between them held in his muscles. The moment he became aware he’s still carrying all of this inside, the burden became unbearable.

Beyond the blinding lights, there’s a town car that’s waiting to take them home. For appearance’s sake, obviously, it’s best for them to be seen entering the same vehicle. Even if they live on opposite sides of London.

Both of them keep their heads down and walk purposefully through the crowd of paparazzi, who part for them like the red sea. The flashes and heckling continue from behind as they rush across the street and to safety. 

Harry bears it for the very last second, keeping his face neutral, passive, but nearly falling into the open car with relief. Once they’re inside the car and the flashes have dimmed behind the black-out glass, Harry exhales. The entire ordeal couldn’t have lasted longer than ten seconds, but it always feels excruciatingly slow at the moment that it’s happening.

“Where to?” The driver asks, noncommittal.

“Hackney, please,” Harry supplies, combing his fingers through his hair.

“We’re closer to yours,” Louis says with a frown.

“Yeah, but –”

“Harry, don’t be daft. We’ll drop you off first.” He waves his hand dismissively, and craning his neck to speak to the driver, corrects, “Hampstead Heath, actually, mate.”

“Right you are.” The driver nods and the low hum of the engine pulls them out of the curb and into the dense London traffic. 

Harry stares out the window, at couples holding hands and rushing under shop awnings to escape the rain. The car remains silent for the next ten minutes, only the low hum of the radio as their companion.

“My sister’s getting married,” Harry says suddenly, and until it came out of his mouth, he wasn’t aware he planned on ever telling Louis.

“Holy shit,” Louis replies, turning to Harry with his eyes wide. “Michal?”

Harry nods. “Of course.”

“Figured. Always thought they were perfect for each other,” Louis muses, a look of genuine joy on his face. “Since when?”

“She told me a few days ago.” Harry shakes his head. “Still can’t believe it.” 

“Wow,” Louis mouths, looking briefly out of the window at the slow drizzle of rain. “How long have they been together?” 

Harry hesitates, and in an effort to sound casual he says, “Nearly five years, I think?” His voice goes up at the end like he’s not confident that’s how long. Like he hasn’t thought about it before. He loves Gemma, and he’s so happy she’s found, Michal. But watching other couples who started dating years after he and Louis, watching them grow and thrive together… reach the milestones they always were so sure they would have for themselves? It would be a lie to say it didn’t hurt. Even just a little.

Louis watches Harry with wistful regard, eyes hooded and mouth a hard line. In that moment, Harry knows exactly what Louis is thinking. _Five years._ That’s how long they lasted. What might have happened if they managed to hold on just that bit longer? Where would they be now? A house and garden, gold wedding bands on their fingers, conversations about family?

A yearning feeling fills the pit of Harry’s stomach. There’s a pull toward Louis, like a dull ache of desire, and he wants so desperately to be given permission to act on it.

“We’re here,” the driver pipes up, cutting across the reverie. The man is noticeably less causal than he’d been at the beginning of the journey. If Harry were the type to get embarrassed easily, he’d be mortified right now. But he’s gotten so used to the silent people that have witnessed his vulnerabilities over the years. 

Harry blinks himself out of his bewitchment and turns away to see his house looming in the dark through the glass. When he turns to Louis again, it’s in question, written all over his face. _Your move._

“Okay, well,” Louis puffs out his chest, giving Harry a very guarded look. “Glad we talked. Cleared things up. Emergencies only and all that.”

“Good. Yes.” Harry replies dumbly, words stilted. “Good chat.”

They stare at one another, the silence weighing heavily between them. Harry’s eyes flick away, not looking at Louis because he knows he won’t be able to cope, won’t be able to take the rejection. There’s a heavy beat and Harry wonders if he’s about to make a horrible mistake.

“Do you want to come in?” Harry asks, already cringing at his own eagerness.

“Yes,” Louis answers so quickly that he sounds out of breath, his voice laced with throaty vulnerability. Harry’s eyes whip back to Louis’ and he sees the shade of beetroot he’s turned. “I mean.” Louis clears his throat, frowning fixedly at his hands. “Yeah, alright,” he adds, this time poorly trying to conceal his excitement. 

Harry doesn’t wait for Louis to change his mind, spilling out of the car with a haphazard thank-you to the driver and a fumble for his house keys. Heart palpitating, he unlocks the front door, not daring to look back at Louis, afraid of his own rising excitement, afraid of his lack of self-control.

He walks into the kitchen, keeping his back to Louis, staring ahead at the soft glow emanating from the bottom of the fridge. He hears Louis enter the room behind him, the soft footfalls and rustling demanding his attention. There’s a short silence, Harry’s back to Louis, neither of them courageous enough to make the move. 

Until the moment Louis decides he is. Harry can hear him getting closer, cautiously so. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, the sensation of his close presence almost palpable. All he has to do is turn around and Louis will be right there. Waiting. The knowledge keeps Harry frozen in place. 

“What are we doing, Harry?” Louis asks, quiet but somehow deafening in the echo of the silent kitchen. 

Harry counts _1, 2, 3._ Then, he turns to face Louis, who stands closer than he’d been expecting. Harry makes the brave gesture of stepping forward so that they’re as close as they can get without touching. 

“What do you think we’re doing?” Harry answers with his own loaded question. 

“What happened to our ground rules?” Louis asks, eyes trained on Harry’s lips. 

Harry shakes his head and he almost wants to laugh at the irony of it. Instead of answering, he slinks off his suit jacket and in one fluid motion captures Louis’ mouth still ajar with his own. Louis takes a second to respond, mouth warm and pliant, kissing back heatedly. Harry’s hands grasp for Louis’ shirt front, turning them both on the spot to push Louis up against the fridge, his back colliding with a gentle thud. One of the magnets falls with a clatter onto the floor. He pins him by the hips, fingers digging into the sides of Louis’ torso. Louis responds with eagerness, pulling Harry into him, the length of their bodies pressed against each other, shirts tugging and trousers creating friction.

This time, there’s nothing and nobody to stop them, to help them see reason. A small part of Harry’s brain is aware that this is reckless, that there will be consequences. But then Louis’ hand combs through Harry’s curls, sending a shiver down his spine, and he doesn’t care so much about consequences anymore. 

“Bedroom. Now,” Louis commands between kisses, trying to lead Harry out of the kitchen. Harry mumbles in agreement, not wanting to break apart, not even for a second. Then, realising his bedroom is two stories up, he opts for the living room. There simply isn’t a measure of time Harry can wait to touch Louis, to be touched by Louis. Not after what feels like years of build-up.

He jerks back from Louis’ move to the stairs, shaking his head dazedly. “No time,” he decides, breathy and needy. Louis’ face registers from confusion to realisation: that Harry needs him now, and not a second later. He nods, fast and keen, allowing Harry to tug him by the wrist into the adjacent living room.

Once in the room, their bodies find one another again, and their kiss grows hungrier. Louis’ mouth is intense and electric, biting a sharp nip into Harry’s lower lip, a thrill of adrenaline coursing through him. He fumbles with the buttons on Louis’ shirt, struggles with them for a second or two before giving up.

“I can’t see what I’m doing,” he says, letting out a small laugh. Louis smiles at him in the dark.

“Turn the light on then, dickhead,” he says, voice hoarse, scratchy.

“Excellent idea,” Harry says, rushing to the lamp and, almost knocking it over in his disoriented enthusiasm, switches it on. The dim glow fills the room, and Louis appears golden against it, angelic. Long shadows play across the room, light and dark collapsing around the one and only thing Harry cares about. Louis stands, hair mussed and face vulnerable.

Harry’s heart is frantic in his chest, and he surges to Louis, unable to contain his smile. Together, Louis’ top is removed and thrown to the floor. Their lips connect once more, teeth crashing from the motion. Louis grabs at Harry’s shirt front and untucks it from his suit pants with a swift jerk.

Once done away with half their clothes, and already unbuckling one another’s trousers, Harry breaks the kiss. 

“Sit,” Harry orders, and then, because he’s never good at being entirely dominant. “Please.”

Louis smiles at him, softly, in awe. He does as he’s told, and sits down in the middle of the couch. He looks unsure, almost nervous. Just as Harry feels. Harry thinks vaguely of making a joke about always ending up compromised together on a couch, but the thought evaporates with the look on Louis’ face. They lock eyes with such remorseless desire that Harry thinks he may go weak at the knees.

Harry drops to his knees in front of Louis, flush against the edge of the couch, knees digging into the hard floorboards. He wastes no time, tugging down Louis’ trousers to the knees before abandoning them altogether. He gently palms Louis’ inner thighs, spreading his legs so he can position himself between them. Louis watches the entire thing with his mouth slack, eyes glinting.

He wants to tease, to go slow, make Louis beg for it. But just watching Louis squirm in front of him, biting his lip and eyeing him like _that,_ is too much to bear. He can’t deny this man anything.

He wraps his hand delicately around Louis, the ghost of his lips on the crown of his dick. Louis makes a small sound of surprise, and Harry arches his brow in question. 

“Your rings. They’re cold,” Louis explains, huffing a little chuckle.

Harry smiles up at him, wickedly so, and instead of answering, he takes Louis into his mouth. Louis sharply inhales, tilts his head against the back of the couch, scrunching his eyes shut.

Harry starts with lazy licks, feeling out Louis’ response, gauging what he wants. Louis groans low and guttural, hips jutting up off the couch. Harry’s eyes flutter shut, and he quickens his pace, dragging his tongue down the length, feeling Louis’ dick harden even more in his mouth. He lets out a muffled moan of his own, digging his fingers into Louis’ side to steady himself.

The whole thing feels so serious, so intense, and unlike any other time, they’ve had sex before. They’ve had quiet, sleepy sex after a long day, they’ve fucked in the shower, unexpected and quick. They’ve laughed and bickered their way to a mutual jerk off. They’ve made love, slow and precise, kissing the whole way through. Harry was sure, after years of it, that they’d tried everything.

But this time, the erotic tension in the air is building, and Harry’s heart feels like it’s going to fail him, anxious and excited all at once. They’re strangers on a one night stand and long lost lovers reunited. They hate one another and they love one another and it’s all the same in Harry’s head. It makes sense, still – _this_ – him and Louis. He’s so riled up with conflicting emotions, his dick half-hard and his mind screaming _yes, no, yes_.

Harry can sense that Louis is close, from the graceless thrusts, the way he’s shaking slightly, back arched off the couch and fist tightening in Harry’s hair. Harry keeps the momentum, cheeks hollowed out around Louis, bobbing up and down. He watches Louis’ face, his mouth gaping, brows knitted in concentration as ragged pants escape his lips. 

“H…” Louis whines, jerking his head forward to watch Harry between his legs. His thighs tighten around Harry’s head, trembling slightly. He gingerly brushes the lock of hair out of Harry’s face, tugging it back to see Harry better. Harry responds with one long, deep swallow, the head of Louis’ dick hitting the back of his throat. Louis thrusts up into Harry’s eager mouth fast and hard, and without much warning, comes with a muttering of curses.

Harry watches as Louis’ movements grow weak and weary, sucking him through the remainder of his orgasm. When Louis is spent, splayed out and panting, Harry pulls away and discreetly wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Jesus,” Louis sighs, letting out a satisfied huff, eyes to the ceiling. His chest rises and falls dramatically. Harry allows himself a satisfied smirk, admiring Louis boneless.

Louis catches Harry off guard when he leans forward and grabs his face, kissing him firmly. Harry’s eyes linger open a second, before fluttering closed, kissing him back. Louis doesn’t seem to mind the taste of himself on Harry’s tongue, mouth open and teeth grazing Harry’s lower lip.

In messy movements, Harry finds himself laying on the couch, with Louis straddling him. The weight of his body and the strength of his thighs, their groins grinding against one another, a heady heat uncoiling in Harry’s crotch. Louis’ on top of him, pressing sharp bites along Harry’s neck and torso, causing him to wince, just slightly, with pleasure.

Louis knots his fingers in Harry’s hair, pulling at the roots at the same time his other hand is cupping Harry through his underwear. The sensation makes Harry moan involuntarily, bucking up into Louis’ grasp.

Louis moves down his chest, nipping at the butterfly, and then one of the laurel tattoos. His stubble itches and tickles against Harry’s bare chest, causing ripples of sensitivity all over his body. Harry lays there, trying not to wriggle, while Louis, atop him, uses his hands to work him up. 

“ _Louis_ …” he warns, head digging back into the cushions and sexual frustration bubbling in his stomach.

“What?” Louis asks looking up with a knowing smirk. He shakes his head, mock disappointed. “Be patient, will you?”

“You fucking…” Harry begins, gritting his teeth, but the sentence dies on his tongue the moment Louis takes him in his mouth. Everything turns to white noise then, blank and fuzzy. He stares up at the ceiling, unseeing, just the sensation of Louis’ wet, hot lips around him. He knows he must be making a litany of embarrassing sounds, but he doesn’t care. And when Louis seems encouraged by it, sucking him with more frantic movements, Harry makes a point of moaning louder.

Louis knows exactly how to touch Harry - he hasn’t forgotten. He’s rough, just the right amount of it, the way Harry likes it. His hands are grating, and he grips the base of Harry’s dick with a firm squeeze while his tongue works sloppy on the head, shooting pleasure through Harry’s body.

With each rapid movement, Harry’s stomach muscles clench involuntarily. He can’t help but thrust up into Louis’ mouth, eager for it to go harder and faster. Louis responds by pinning Harry’s backside back down into the couch with a dominant hand. The small gesture makes Harry squirm excitedly. He can feel the orgasm building, knows he won’t last very long.

With one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind him, Harry slaps his other hand down onto Louis’ hand, which is digging into his waist. Louis looks up at him through his lashes, deliberately slowing his mouth, so that he’s moving up and down at a torturous speed.

The intensity of their eye contact is all it takes. Harry’s breath hitches as he comes, arching his back off the couch, waves of arousal flooding over him. He struggles to keep his eyes open and on Louis, but he does it, mouth slack and brows furrowed. He shivers when Louis gives a final lick of the tip of his dick, overstimulated and sensitive. They’re still staring at one another as Harry’s body relaxes, going virtually limp.

Then, Harry closes his eyes, relaxing fully into the plush velvet of the couch, breaths slowly returning to regular. Louis silently moves off him, pulling up his pants and trousers. The rustling sound alerts Harry, and he opens his eyes to see the other man half-dressed already. 

“You’re leaving?” he asks, propping himself up onto his elbows. He tries to ignore the hurt this illicit, deep in his core. He’s literally still recovering post-orgasm, and Louis is already trying to run. Absurdly, he isn’t that surprised. 

Louis hesitates, freezing in the middle of pulling up his zipper. “Oh, I was just -” he stumbles over his words, gesturing vaguely to the other room. When Harry doesn’t say anything, simply looks up at him, defeated, Louis gulps and adds with a hardened expression, “I probably should, actually. Y’know. Feed the dogs and stuff.” 

“Right,” Harry nods, trying to understand, and wishing things would play out differently to this. “Yeah, of course.” 

Louis ducks down and grabs his shirt and Harry finds himself too embarrassed to watch. He turns his gaze away, sitting upright and covering himself with a pillow. The high which they were on has come crashing down. Harry is perilously close to feeling a shame he hasn’t felt in a long time. He’d allowed himself to be vulnerable, open, and this is how he’s paying for it. 

Harry is too self-conscious to meet Louis’ eyes, even after he’s fully dressed and standing in front of him expectantly. 

“I’ll see myself out, then,” he hears Louis say, a hint of resentment there. But Harry’s withdrawn so far into himself that the words are faint, distant, like someone whispering from far away. He just wants to stay right here in the aftermath of their sex, naked and dirty, and never face the reality of what they’ve done to each other.

Harry looks up, trying to mask the internal war going on inside his mind. “If you don’t mind,” he says, gesturing vaguely to his current state of undress. 

Louis’ face, impassive, nods. “I’ll see you ‘round, okay?” 

“Yep,” Harry says, nodding. 

Louis watches him, critically, chewing his lip. He huffs out a breath, seeming to decide there’s nothing more to say. Harry’s eyes glaze over, staring ahead, and he hears the faint click of the front door behind Louis as he leaves. The sound taunts him, echoing throughout the empty house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two new beta readers (yay!) the lovely Hailey of [pinkcords](http://pinkcords.tumblr.com) and Astraea of [thinkingforhours](http://thinkingforhours.tumblr.com)! So thanks to them!
> 
> Also again, big lesbian, really inept at the male anatomy and m/m sex so I TRIED, and I hope it was alright. Thanks for reading!
> 
> ★ Harry is writing [To Be So Lonely](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6PPK-6FeJ9A) which was indeed already a melody by Mitch Rowland (according to Harry in the Howard Stern interview)  
> ★ [Sketch](https://sketch.london/) is a real (and very fancy) restaurant in the heart of London.  
> ★ [The Gallery Room](https://i2.wp.com/highteasociety.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/sketchfeature760x360.jpg?fit=760%2C360&ssl=1) looks like it is described.  
> ★ All the food and drinks described are also on the current menu (which can be found on the website)  
> ★ Half Moon beach is a [real place](https://live.staticflickr.com/8240/8626662660_669e7ff029_b.jpg) in Jamaica  
> ★ Louis and Harry have history with Jamaica. I couldn't find an appropriate masterlist but to summarise from memory, they've both been spotted in the country on holiday at or around the same time as one another and receipts have claimed they're together there often at private resorts. This dates as far back as 2014. More recently, Harry recorded his first solo album while living in Jamaica.


	9. Gable and Lombard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to add titles for each chapter starting now. I've gone back through and done it to the previously published chapters as well. Just for fun... and because I've been procrastinating actually writing and editing. Maybe these titles will help clue you in on what'll be happening each chapter! Anyway, this chapter is my favourite so far. I had a lot of fun writing it! So, enjoy.

Harry awakes to a shrill ring of his phone. With a frustrated groan and a slap through his duvet, he locates the phone tussled among blankets.

“What?” he answers, grumpy. 

“Oh good, you’re not dead,” Jane answers, perky. “Rang you three times before you picked up.”

“Really?” Harry frowns. “I didn’t hear anything, sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you were sleeping.”

“S’what if I was?” Harry replies, rubbing his eyes repeatedly.

“It’s midday, Harry.”

“What? No, it isn’t…” He takes the phone away from his ear and sees that sure enough, it is ten past twelve in the afternoon. “Shit. So it is.” He can’t remember the last time he’s slept in past nine in the morning. Interesting.

“Big night?” she asks wryly.

“M’not answering that,” Harry says, running his hand down his face, hoping to physically rid himself of his fatigue. His voice, still thick with sleep, comes out low and heavy. “What you calling for?”

“Can’t a girl call her favourite client for the hell of it?”

“Jane…” Harry whines, cracking a yawn wider than his jaw is even able to open.

“Alright, fine,” she says, sighing through the line. Harry can’t help but laugh. “The photos from last night are up.” She pauses, presumably looking at a screen of the photos. “Harry, these are _such_ an improvement,” she breathes, deeply relieved. “Spending time together privately is clearing working, so keep it up.”

Harry flushes, glad that this meeting is over the phone, so he can’t give himself away. He sits up, messing around with his bed hair. “Er, thank you,” he stutters dumbly. What is he supposed to say? _The reason it was so convincing, Jane, is because we were moments away from fucking each other’s brains out. All the love._

“And honestly, it couldn’t come at a better time. AMAs are coming up in a few weeks and you’re going to walk the red carpet together. I’ve already emailed you all the info of your flight out to Los Angeles and where you’ll be staying. You’ll obviously be sharing a room with Louis, for appearance’s sake. I hope this won’t be an issue anymore?”

Harry gapes. With everything going on, the American Music Awards had escaped his mind completely. “Uh, no, yeah… yeah of course. That’s fine.”

“Good, great!” Jane sounds perky, like for once, Harry’s making her job just that bit easier. If only she knew. “We’ve got an interview on the radio next week, so don’t forget. They’ve finally sent through a list of questions and topics for you to approve. I’ve got an idea of what we’ll say yes and no to, but I’ve sent that through for you to have a look at, anyway.”

“Okay, cool, I’ll take a look at that in a minute.”

“Last thing on the agenda, which I’m sure you boys already discussed – photoshoot on location for One Direction. That’s on, er...” She pauses, evidently looking at her schedule. “November 18th. We’ve timed it around Liam being back from LA, so we’ve only got a short window, but hopefully, it won’t take long. No more than two hours, I should think.”

Harry scoffed. “You clearly haven’t seen all four of us in a room together,” he muses, smirking to himself. “You know, once we were shooting for an album and they had to throw a ball so we’d all look at the same direction at once, we were _that_ uncoordinated.”

Jane sighs, as if this is not a surprise, really, but still something she doesn’t want to hear. “I do hope you’re joking.”

“You’ll see on November 18th.”

“Bloody hell,” she cusses, though he can tell by her tone that she isn’t really angry. “And Harry?” Jane’s voice goes up higher, sounding a little nervous.

“Yes, Jane?” He frowns at his duvet cover, unsure what she’s going to say. There’s a split second of panic where his heart begins to race, worried she might know what he and Louis are doing behind closed doors.

“You _are_ okay, aren’t you?” Her voice softens and Harry’s stomach squirms. They’ve always been on good terms, as far as a manager and client can be, but they’ve never gone beyond that. He can sense how uncomfortable this display of affection is making her when she says, awkwardly, “I know it’s a lot to ask, spending so much time with him and everything, but I really am proud of how well you’re doing.”

“Thanks… thanks, Jane.” He feels a swell of admiration at her concern. “And yeah, I am. I’m more than okay.”

“Okay. Good. I’m glad. I’ll see you next Friday.”

When the line goes dead, Harry stares at nothing for a moment before flopping back down into the soft escape of his bed. Arms spread wide, Harry lays among his comforter and atop his too many pillows, looking at the ceiling.

Less than fourteen hours ago, Louis was here, at his house. To think of it now is to live in a dream. It doesn’t seem real. And yet, Harry’s body bears the proof of it all: his torso littered with red and purple hickeys, the sensitive place between his thigh and groin is marked with beard burn. Even his lips feel swollen, fuller somehow.

He closes his eyes, thinking back to the evening and how it lead to sex. He remembers how beautiful Louis looked: the crinkles at his eyes when he laughed, the curl of his lip, the sounds that escaped them when Harry touched him.

He’s aware, on some level, that this is a huge fucking mess. But it’s clouded with the bliss, overshadowed by the sheer ecstasy of having Louis like that again, after years. He’s still giddy in the afterglow of it, still feels the ghost of Louis’ touch, of Louis’ kiss. He’s on the precipice of idealist and rational. He wants to be able to tell himself it won’t ever happen again. He wants to be able to say that it was enough to release the tension, a single outburst that’ll reorient them. He can’t. Not really, not _honestly_.

Instead, he relives last night like a broken record, repeating the image of kissing Louis in his kitchen, the moment they decided to take this someplace they won’t ever be able to return from. 

The phone still in his palm, Harry brings it to his face and opens the notes app. The tune of the most recent half-written song in his mind, he thumbs quickly, the following words:

> _I couldn’t want you any more_
> 
> _Kiss in the kitchen like it’s a dancer floor_
> 
> _I couldn’t want you any more_
> 
> _Tonight_

*** * ***

The next time Harry hears from Louis, neither of them even have to mention what they’re thinking. They just know. He asks if he wants to come over and Harry doesn’t hesitate in saying yes. It takes a five-minute pep talk in front of the mirror on his way out to decide if he’s really going to do this. The first time is easy enough to ignore as an outlier – a one-off, a letting off of steam. But if they do it again? Can he continue to deny what’s blossoming between them?

The yellow of Louis’ door stared him in the face and when Louis answered, all he had to do was look at Harry’s lips and they were clinging to one another, hungry and dirty. It was like coming home, like being away for so long and finally coming the fuck home.

Every time after that - at Harry’s place, at Louis’, in the back of one of their cars - they’re messy and frantic, jerking one another off against the wall in the hallway, blowjobs in the middle of the night like some sort of wet dream just because Harry texted Louis that he couldn’t sleep, bruising hickeys into each other’s necks in the backseat of Louis’ car, like horny teenagers. They kiss as if it’ll be the last, and they fuck fast and hard, and when it’s over, they can’t quite seem to gather the strength to explain it, to look one another in the eyes. Each time, they don’t speak, sharp breaths and panting groans their only communication.

But it’s exhilarating, and Harry hasn’t felt this alive in years, just a total live wire to Louis’ touch. And if it makes no sense, if it’s confusing, if it catches up to him only in the dead of night, when he goes home to an empty bed, he’s willing to take it. He’s willing to risk it, just for another moment like that with Louis.

By the time the photoshoot comes around, the leaves of autumn have fully dropped from their trees and the streets outside the photoshoot location are lined with orange and red. 

A sleepy hollow of a town, all Walthamstow has to offer is the local brewery and the neon sign collection that occupies the warehouse opposite it. The entire street is cordoned off, with a strict security team manning every entrance. If anyone so much as glimpses one of the bandmates, the entire project could be leaked. 

God’s Own Junkyard - an eclectic warehouse full of neon signs - is a vibrant, exciting backdrop for their photoshoot. The large space is filled with signs, vintage and new, from floor to ceiling. It’s an assault to the senses - some flashing, all glowing in fluorescent colours, pinks and blues dominating. Harry is so impressed by the place, that by the end of the shoot, he’s bought several of the neon signs for his house. 

Despite Harry’s mild threat, the photoshoot goes well, considering. No ball is thrown to catch the four eye lines, and it seems that even after years of doing this individually, the group comes back together as if no time has passed. They’re on the floor of the studio, leant back casually, or they’re bumping shoulders in a line-up, or they’re asked to chat among themselves for candid’s. 

They take a few photos outside the warehouse, in front of the roller door and besides what can only be described as a life-size cow statue hand-painted in psychedelic The Beatles’ _Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band_ album cover style. Across its belly in pink cursive reads LOVE. Louis starts climbing the animal and Harry rushes to his aid, helping him up while Niall leans against the brick wall and Liam picks flowers that are growing through the gaps in the cement. It’s reminiscent of their early days as a band - of the _Take Me Home_ album where they climbed a fire-engine red phone booth - only more mature, more genuine. 

There’s a freshness to the shoot – the hair and make-up team is the same as One Direction always had – but the photographer is new, each of their managers are chatting amicably over coffee, and the direction (excuse the pun) feels uniquely _them._ As if they’re finally shrugging off whatever remnants of Simon Cowell and Modest! Management might still cling to their image.

Instead of plain white t-shirts and black skinny jeans, each boy is dressed in their personal sense of style. Louis is head-to-toe in sportswear, looking comfortable and relaxed as he rests an elbow on Niall’s shoulder. He alternates between pointing to Niall with his thumb and folding his arms with pursed lips and wide eyes. Niall’s hair is subtly quaffed, and he looks as if he’s just walked out of a country Vogue shoot, rustic and smartly dressed. He’s looking down the barrel of the camera with an arched brow and a playful side smirk. Liam wears fashion brown rimmed glasses, which he’s been sporting a lot lately along with overgrown floppy 90s hair. His simple mustard button-up shirt is paired with a long gold chain around his neck, and vintage beige trousers. He’s trying his hardest to look serious, smouldering Hugo Boss ambassador, but Louis keeps making fun of him and that sets Niall off, cackling with his head back.

Harry, for his part, is in awe of his friends and of being back in this situation with them. It’s nice to sit back in the make-up chair, head lulled back while Lou Teasdale tells him how much Lux has grown since he last saw her. To shake the hand of every crew member he recognises from the industry and chat like old friends. He’s put into a few different options – from a flouncy floral shirt undone to the belly button, a hot pink turtleneck number, always paired with high-waisted pants. Falling back into a familiar routine, like stealing bits of Niall’s lunch during break, or saying something odd that makes Liam stare at him blankly for two whole minutes.

Best of all is the way he and Louis fit together so seamlessly as if it’s 2015 and they’re laughing on a couch during an interview over inside jokes again. They sneak glances at each other, mouthing banter, suppressing giggles, while Niall and Liam pose between them. It’s all captured so naturally on camera, and this time they have the comfort of knowing no one will be going through the photos with a fine-tooth comb trying to cut any shots of them making eyes at one another. In fact, it’s encouraged – Jane nodding keenly whenever Louis so much as leans against Harry’s side.

Harry and Louis have seen more of one another in the last two weeks than they have in years. And if it shows on their faces, Niall and Liam are kind enough to pretend otherwise. He does think he gets a sly look from the Irishman, catching him watching Louis for a little longer than necessary in the middle of camera flashes, but for Niall’s part, he doesn’t comment on it. For that, Harry is grateful. The last thing he and Louis need right now are prying eyes – not when what they’re doing doesn’t have a name, not when they haven’t even talked about it among themselves.

*** * ***

“Good morning all and welcome to the Breakfast show here over at BBC Radio One,” Nick smoothly introduces the broadcast. “It’s about half-past seven in the morning and I’m joined by the lovely Harry Styles.”

“Hello,” Harry announces, cheery, a hand on the side of his bulky headphones. “Thanks for having me.”

“You’re very welcome, Harry!” Nick says, grinning mischievously at him across the console. “Love the trousers, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Harry responds, looking down at his outfit.

“You make ‘em from your nan’s curtains?”

Harry laughs freely. “Might’ve, might’ve.”

“For the benefit of everyone listening, Mr Styles is wearing neon yellow trousers in –” 

“More of a chartreuse, I’d say, Nick,” Harry interjects, leaning forward on the desk with his elbows.

“Right, right, chartreuse trousers in - what would you call that pattern, Harry?”

“Erm, I believe it’s called paisley.”

“Paisley. What an excellent word that is,” Nick muses conversationally and Harry makes a noise of agreement. Nick points to his neck, drawing an invisible line around it. “The pearls, too, very nice, very nice.”

“Thanks, thank you.”

“Alright,” Nick says abruptly. “Enough small talk. How’ve you been? What’s happening in the world of Harry?”

Harry chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Erm, I’ve been good! Yeah.” His voice goes up an octave. “Just… been hangin’ out.” He shrugs, pouts his lips in contemplation. “Writing a lot, spending time in the studio, working on the new album.”

“Excellent, excellent. And when can we expect that?”

“Erm, it’s uh… still, a bit of a way’s off. Sometime early next year, I’d say.”

“I’m sure I speak for many when I say I can’t wait to hear it, Harold.”

“Thank you, Nick. Much appreciated.”

“And hubby, he’s working on some music too?” Nick asks, keen eyes glinting for Harry’s reaction. It’s the first time Harry has been asked about Louis in an interview since the confirmation of their relationship.

“His first solo record, yeah.” Harry nods, trying to suppress a smile.

“You must be proud.”

“Very.”

“Hey, ever thought of collaboratin’?”

Harry laughs. “You know what, Nick? We have, and it’s called _Made in the A.M._ out now on iTunes.”

Nick cackles brightly. “Okay,” Nick begins, clearing his throat. He looks across at Harry before he says, “So we’re going to play a game.”

“Oh no,” Harry replies, voice low with concern.

“What d’you mean, ‘oh no’!” Nick exclaims, laughing a bit.

“M’scared,” Harry admits, smiling timidly.

Nick scoffs, waving his hand. “Don’t be scared, Harold! It’ll be fun!” When Harry gives an unconvinced grimace, Nick continues, “Erm, it’s called Rumours.” He looks down at his script. “I’m going to read to you some rumours about you and you’re going to tell me if they’re true or not.”

“Okay…” Harry narrows his eyes.

“Don’t look so – He’s petrified! Come on, Harold!” Nick laughs and Harry groans.

“Get on with it,” He banters playfully back.

“Okay. First one.” Nick reads the list. “True or false. Did you, or did you not, have a secret affair with Former President Barack Obama?”

Harry lets out a bark of laughter. “I did not, no. False, absolutely false.”

“You’re killing dreams here this morning, Styles.”

“I know, I know,” Harry replies faux sad.

“Okay, next one. You were offered the role of Prince Eric in the live-action remake of the _Little Mermaid.”_

Harry wavers. “Erm…” He clears his throat. “It was discussed.”

“Ooh, that one’s true, that one’s true!” Nick grins.

“The project sounds amazing and everyone involved in it are amazing,” Harry explains in a calculated, slow voice. “But, erm, it sort of conflicted with my music, and with when I’d like to start touring again, so er, unfortunately, didn’t work out, no. But I’m looking forward to seeing it when it does come out.”

“I see, I see. Fascinating. Okay.” Nick nods his head eagerly, then returns to the page in front of him. “True or false. One Direction is reuniting in 2020.”

Harry tries to make his face as neutral as possible. This, among others, he was prepared for.

“Erm…” he muses, deliberately sounding vague and mysterious. He can practically hear the infuriated groans of those listening in. 

“For those listening, Harry’s poker face is rubbish.”

Harry breaks into a laugh. “It is not!”

“Yes, it is! You look constipated! You feeling alright?”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry says, laughing along. When his amusement subsides, he lets out a puff of air. “Well, okay, erm… No comment.”

“What a cop-out, Harold!” Nick teases, knowing full well he was going to say that. “Alright, alright. Last one. True or false: you are the one that leaked the video of you and former bandmate Louis Tomlinson.”

“False,” Harry answers promptly, turning serious. “Neither of us knew that video would come out, ever.”

“Alright, okay.” Nick nods appreciatively. “While we’re on that subject, I have to ask…”

“Course you do.” Harry rolls his eyes.

“Since announcing you’re a couple, you two’ve been seen out and about and such,”

“Correct.” Harry nods.

“People are going absolutely mad about it online. I think ‘Larry Stylinson’ has been trending on Twitter worldwide for the last week.” Nick chuckles. “Some of the Tweets are actually quite funny. I’m gonna read some out to you.” He clears his throat, “Er, first one here is from someone named Kelly. She says, ‘I’ll just be going about my day and then I’ll realise Harry and Louis are in love and then I have to sit down for a minute and stare at a wall.’”

Harry laughs, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “Kelly and I have that in common.” 

Nick sniggers, shaking his head at Harry. He looks back down at his sheet of paper. “Next one, Alice. ‘Okay but since H and L came out I need to know everything. How long have they been dating? Is it as long as we think? 2011? Or more recent? When is their anniversary? Do they still do date night? I just NEED ANSWERS!’” Nick raises an eyebrow, “Care to share, on that one?”

Harry laughs. “Nope.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.” Nick pouts. “C’mon, give us somethin’.” He pauses, grinning wickedly. “I can answer for you if you like!”

Harry shakes his head, grinning. “Please don’t,” he says, worried. He can see his manager snickering outside of the booth. He eyes her and she gives him a thumbs up, smiling at him. He’s had to deny and dodge questions surrounding his love life for years now, but never at this capacity. Usually, all he has to do is vaguely elude to some pretty leggy girl he’s been seen with, which he hated and was never good at. He always ended up making himself sound mysterious and gay, which, he supposes, he is. But for once, his awkward and evasive public persona is doing him favours. It’s selling the lie.

“Erm, well.” Harry frowns deeply. “I mean, it was all pretty crazy the way it happened…” He gestures vaguely, “Y’know, with the video and stuff… but, um, me and Louis’ve always kind of… preferred to keep our relationship like, to ourselves? I like to keep y’know, work and personal life, er, separate. And I think Louis is the same.” He pauses, fiddling with his rings. It’s easier to fabricate something when it originates in the truth. Just because he and Louis are no longer genuinely dating, doesn’t mean this isn’t exactly how they felt when they were. He used to script answers like this in his mind, on repeat, daydreaming of a time he could tell the public that he and his boyfriend just want to be themselves, away from the scrutiny.

It feels so bizarre to be doing this now. All the harsh words still replaying in his mind and the lost years between them they’ll never makeup, all the tattoos Louis has that Harry doesn’t know the stories behind… all of it. Worst of all, to be doing it with the image of Louis’ face between his legs just nights ago replaying in his mind. He almost flushes at the memory.

After a lingering pause, Harry leans into the microphone to continue. “People are always going to… y’know, they’re always going to want to know when this happened or who or why and stuff but er…” He shrugs. “I’m happy… ‘n I think, fans always want like, they just want you to be yourself, and this is me. So… yeah.”

Nick nods sagely, a knowing glint in his eyes. “So we won’t be getting an E! True Hollywood Story on your romance any time soon?”

Harry lets out a laugh. “No, not that I know of, no.”

“Shame,” Nick muses, and Harry makes a noise of agreeance, the both of them grinning. “D’you know what I will say,” Nick says, changing the subject, “I was thinking about this the other day, actually.” His voice raises a pitch higher and he points across the desk at Harry. “D’you remember that time the three of us went out in London or summit, got to be years ago now, and we’d had a few, right and – was it you or was it Louis that tried to climb someone’s back fence?” 

Harry covers his face, groaning. “That was me.” 

“That’s right! You got up on this high brick wall and Louis had to talk you down!” Nick laughs, happy to have the memory click into place. “He was like,” Nick takes on a persona, his voice an atrocious Donny accent. “‘Haz, love, your enthusiasm is great, but it’s two in the morning and these people aren’t expecting guests.’” 

Letting out a genuine, hearty laugh, Harry grins at the memory. He forgot about it, until now. Louis never quite got along with Nick as Harry did, but he always made the effort because he was Harry’s friend. They would go out, and even if the two of them butt heads every now and again, the three of them always had fun, one way or another.

“I’d just like to clarify, it was somebody’s fence of people we knew. Friends of ours. I was not trying to break and enter,” Harry says as if that is supposed to make the anecdote less embarrassing.

“Right, right. In case any local police are listening,” Nick says, frowning. He breaks into a beaming smile and leans into the microphone, presenter voice back on. “Well, that’s all we have time for I’m afraid.” He looks to Harry, nodding, “Harry, thanks so much for comin’ into the studio, you’re a good sport, as always.”

“Thank you, thanks for having me, thanks,” Harry answers, nodding appreciatively.

“We’ll be playing Harry’s latest single up after this, so stay tuned. This is Nick Grimshaw coming to you live from BBC Radio One. _Lights Up_ by Harry Styles, everyone.”

The instrumental of _Lights Up_ echoes around in the studio speakers and their mics are turned off. Harry removes his headphones, pushes away from the desk, the wheels of his chair rolling back, and he stretches his arms above his head. Letting out a satisfied huff, he stands up.

“Excellent job, excellent,” Jane says the moment Harry pushes open the glass door dividing the tech crew and the recording studio where Nick still sits. She smiles broadly. “Couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

Harry returns her smile, albeit sheepishly. It gives him a weird sense of unease to do what he’s doing, but it’s mixed with something else. Something that feels a lot like excitement. He’s distracted by the vibration of his phone in his back pocket and he excuses himself, turning his back and pulling out his phone.

> _See you tonight ?_

Louis’ message sends a spike of adrenaline through Harry’s heart. He stares at it, blinking rapidly, sure that his cheeks must be flushing. He doesn’t hesitate, unlocking the phone and responding with a swift:

> _Yes._

“Look at you, all loved up,” Nick remarks playfully, causing Harry to jump. He didn’t see the man coming up behind him. He immediately jerks his hand away, so that Nick can’t see the content of his messages. “And here I was, worried you’d be an old tired bachelor forever.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry says coolly, trying to shake his self-satisfied smile.

“Oh, come on. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on, Harry. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Oh, really? Could’ve fooled me,” Harry teases back, evasive as ever. He looks back down at his phone, involuntarily grinning.

“You slept with him, didn’t you?” Nick says, eyes and mouth wide.

Harry’s grin vanishes. “Who?”

“Louis, you git!” Nick exclaims, unable to hide his smile at catching Harry out. “I mean, I get it, he’s quite dishy, but don’t you think that’s…”

“We’re together, Nick,” Harry lies, unconvincing. He shifts the weight from one foot to the other, anxious. 

“Right, sure.” Nick rolls his eyes, scoffing. “You think I’ve forgotten how bad your break up was?”

Harry’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t have words. Lately, he’s wondered if maybe he’s the one that’s forgotten how bad the break up was. The reminder is like a stab in the gut. And his face must show it because Nick’s face softens, and he squeezes Harry’s upper arm affectionately.

“Don’t worry, Harold,” he says, lowering his voice. “Your secret’s safe with me. Just don’t let it get messy, yeah?”

Harry nods numbly.

“Good to see you, man,” Nick says. They meet in the middle, hugging firmly. It’s been a while since he saw Grimmy, but every time, it’s as if no time has passed at all. “We should really catch up, soon, eh?” 

“You too, man, you too,” Harry agrees. “Totally. I’ll text you.”

Nick gives him a pat on the shoulder before turning his back on him and saying something about grabbing a quick coffee before returning to the air. Harry is left standing with less bounce in his step than before he got there.

*** * ***

Harry makes a final sweep of his bedroom, making sure he hasn’t forgotten to pack anything. He thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that it might help to make a packing list. He has the same issue every single time he has to travel short notice (any time he travels at all, really) and he’s always left in a ditzy flurry, trying to find a pair of socks he’s misplaced, and that must, under no circumstances, not accompany him to Belgium. When he was living with Louis, he’d drive him insane with all his last-minute disorderly preparations. Louis always packed early, and well, which was a stark contrast to his usual messiness around the house, mind. But it worked and Louis ended up going mental watching Harry try and do the same with five hours until their flight. _How long have we been on the road, H? We basically live out of a suitcase and you still manage to make this ten times harder than it needs to be._

Harry always retorted defensively, claimed he had a system. What he didn’t really say was that Louis was his system.

Harry’s never been very good at organisation. Especially when he doesn’t have someone to mouth-off at him about it. 

Checking his bedside table draws, Harry stills at the sight of a bottle of lube and packet of condoms. Both completely brand new and unopened. He hesitates, thinking it may be premature or wishful thinking, but decides: _fuck it,_ grabbing the two items and shoving them in his hand luggage. And if the baggage scanner at customs gives him the eye about it, so be it.

Downstairs, on his way out to the car waiting in the driveway on idle, Harry catches sight of a pile of mail on his kitchen table he forgot to open. Majority of them bills, the occasional letter from an unknown sender, the last catching his eye. He shrugs off his carry-on bag and quickly rips open the crisp creamy envelope. He nearly lets out a gasp at the sight of _Gemma Anne Styles and Michal Feliks Mlynowski invite you…_ and he barely gets through the full engagement party invite before clutching the sheet to his chest, grinning to himself. The date is set for New Year’s Eve, and Harry is quick to take a shaky photo, send it to his sister with his personalised RSVP: _YES! A thousand times, yes!_

After a near 12-hour flight chasing the world’s sunset, Harry’s plane touches down in LAX. The sky is darkening and the air is a tepid 21 degrees on dusk. Harry feels the ache in his bones from sitting still too long, shaking his limbs out as someone unloads his suitcase. He’s thankful that the paparazzi aren’t anywhere in sight – they agreed to give some privacy in exchange for being tipped off about which hotel he and Louis will be staying at. It’s much more financially viable to sell photographs of two boy banders than one. Especially two in love.

Harry slips into the slick black town car waiting for him outside the airport terminal and he’s met with the soft expression of Louis in the backseat next to him. Although he knew they had to be seen arriving together, it doesn’t stop the feeling of the wind being knocked out of him just to be smiled at like that.

“Hi,” Harry says in greeting, feeling suddenly overcome with shyness.

“Hi yourself,” Louis answers, fiddling nervously with his fringe. They both look off in different directions, Harry trying to hide his giddy smile, and if he could see Louis’ face, he’d know he’s doing the exact same thing.

They arrive at 7000 Hollywood Boulevard to a large, stark white building, looming into the sky. Above them, letters spelling out _The Hollywood Roosevelt_ top the infrastructure like candles on a frosted cake.

Outside, spilling off the sidewalk, clusters of paparazzi lay in wait. Their legs bent, eyes scanning and camera posed to shoot. Harry knew they’d be here, Jane had warned them, but it didn’t prevent the ill-ease from blossoming in his stomach. He wants, for once, to have the privilege of being out with Louis without any ulterior motive, without the burden of publicity. Still, it’s their job, and sometimes he needs to be reminded that that’s all it is to Louis. A job. 

Harry takes the lead, as he usually does, opening the door and walking out into the onslaught. Louis is not far behind, mostly shielded by the few inches Harry has over him and by the subtle way Harry has moved to block a direct view of Louis. The cameras flash, blinding lights cracking in their eyes, and suddenly, the gentle pressure of Louis’ hand on the small of Harry’s back, reassuring, guiding him through it. Harry keeps his head down, trained on the concrete until they’re safely through the rotating doors and in the foyer of the hotel.

Down a narrow hall carpeted with floral patterns and vintage wall sconces that pool warm light at short intervals, Louis and Harry search for their room. When they reach the end of the hall, a short flight of stairs direct them to a dark wood door. The brass label reads _Gable and Lombard Penthouse_.

Louis unlocks the penthouse door, moving off ahead of Harry. Following behind, Harry carries their luggage into the room, gently shutting the door behind him with his foot. Before him, a space large enough to consider home. The long hallway opens out onto what Harry assumes is the living space, immaculately decorated with leather and chocolate accents. The ceilings are tall and the furniture has a masculine richness about it. Even after years in the industry, he can’t quite wrap his head around opulence.

“You’d think they could afford a place with two beds,” Louis says loudly from the other room.

Harry places their suitcases down in the hallway, before following Louis’ voice. He realises after searching both bathrooms – which are wall to ceiling pink marble, by the way – that Louis isn’t on the same floor. Harry heads up a winding staircase, which is flush against a wall of mirrors, his own reflection bounding two steps at a time. He emerges at the top, in a room that must be what the concierge described as ‘the tower.’

He can’t help but gape, eyes drawn immediately to the pitched roof, ornate engravings on dark wood contrasting against the white walls. The beams intersect one another, slanting upward into a triangle centre point. His eyes follow the centre beam, a robust block of wood that dangles a large lighting fixture, suspended above the bed. The entire thing feels industrial chic with Edison globes, two dusty brown leather chairs facing each other, a faux animal skin rug beneath the coffee table between them.

Louis is standing at the foot of the bed with his arms folded, gesturing to the lone double bed in the centre. An entire penthouse and only one bed.

“For God’s sake,” Harry exclaims, momentarily frustrated. “I’m going to kill Jane.”

Louis scoffs, approaching the bed. He lingers a moment, then sits down on it with a gentle thud. Palming the linen doona cover with both hands, Louis looks up at Harry. He looks nervous, but perhaps Harry is misreading him. He feels like he’s done that a lot lately.

“It’s okay, I’ll sleep on the floor,” Harry offers quickly, scratching the back of his neck, looking down to avoid Louis’ gaze.

“Oh,” Louis mouths, quiet. “You sure? I don’t mind…”

“Yeah, seriously,” Harry says, puffing up his chest, faking confidence. “It’s alright. Don’t want to make it weird.”

“Right, yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Harry says, turning his back on Louis so that he can’t see the flush in his cheeks. He really is okay with sleeping on the floor, but he’d been hoping, considering everything, that it wouldn’t be necessary. They’ve slept together a handful of times recently, surely they can handle sharing a fucking bed. But it’s been two whole weeks since the last time they did, two whole weeks without Louis’ kiss, touch… and it isn’t as if Harry is counting, it isn’t as if he _cares…_ But God, he was so sure things were changing. But that’s Harry’s fault, really, for letting Nick’s words get to him.

Harry blinks slowly, forces his focus to here and now. Everything is great. Everything is fucking fantastic. He sighs, putting his hands on his hips. He inspects the space, scanning the bedroom, getting a proper look at it for the first time. It’s really quite beautiful – the best money can buy. The arched windows line every available wall, offering expansive 360-degree views of Los Angeles, palm trees and swooping Hollywood hills. The Hollywood sign shouts at him from miles away, white littering of letters across a beautiful landscape. He can even see the Chinese Theatre from the furthest window, tourists filling up the sidewalk. 

The atmosphere feels distinctly old Hollywood, the vintage accents coupled with the contemporary architectural design creates something soothing, calm. It’s really a shame he won’t be able to experience it properly, sleeping on the floor.

“Guess I should start setting something up now,” he muses, looking through the linen closet for extra blankets and pillows. Louis must nod because he doesn’t say anything. In fact, he’s painfully silent. So Harry gets to work, grabbing the decorative fluffy pillows and latte coloured throw blanket off the bed to be repurposed.

Late autumn afternoon fades into evening and the sky lights up like a Christmas tree – Los Angeles showing no signs of turning in for the night. Although they’re 12 floors up, the hustle and bustle of the nightlife trickle up through the floors, ambient and comforting. Harry feels a twinge of envy, wanting to go on an adventure through Tinseltown with Louis, like any other tourist. But he’s Harry Styles and Louis is Louis Tomlinson, and he’s jetlagged, eyes dropping so much they sort of hurt. Louis hasn’t touched him in an achingly long time and they simply can’t.

The echoing light of the Roosevelt’s neon sign glows through the open window and a lamp on downstairs filters light up through the staircase. These are the only sources of light, now that Louis is settled among the comforters in the middle of the generous size king bed. Harry is trying to get comfortable at the foot of it, already prepared for a backache come morning.

Harry stares up at the vaulted ceiling, the etchings indistinguishable in the darkness. The city lights cause shadows across the beams, thick lines of black. It’s like looking at an optical illusion for too long.

“You know why they call this room the Gable and Lombard?” Harry asks, tilting his head.

“No. Why?” He hears Louis ask, voice perked in interest. 

“Clark Gable and Carole Lombard used to live here, back in the forties.”

“I’ll be honest, Haz,” Louis replies, a playfulness in his tone. “I don’t know who either of those people are.”

Harry lets out a bark of laughter and can hear Louis gently joining in.

“Clark Gable was a big Hollywood star in the 40s and 50s. You know, _Gone With the Wind_?”

Louis makes an uneasy sound of recognition. “Sure.”

Harry smiles, broadly. He forgot the useless information he’d have in his head, all the time, just to tell Louis about. It’s a nice feeling.

“Anyway. Clark Gable meets this girl. She’s an actress, she’s beautiful. She’s his co-star on some movie. But she’s married, and he is too. So nothing happens,” Harry says, speaking slow and calm. He’s reminded of times he’d coax Louis to sleep on nights he was restless or upset, just by playing with his hair and telling him a story. “A few years later, when they’re both single, they’re both at one of these, like, outrageously over the top Hollywood parties, and they see each other.” Harry can’t help but gesture with his hands, even though Louis can’t even see him. “They dance together, even though she’d brought someone else as her date. And at the end of the night, they share a ride home, and when Clark asks her up to his hotel room, Carole goes, ‘Who do you think you are, Clark Gable?’”

Louis lets out a gentle laugh and Harry smiles up into the dark. He lets his hands fall down to rest on his stomach, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths, completely and incandescently aware of the oxygen in his lungs, the blood in his veins, heart skipping a beat just to hear that laugh.

“They were inseparable until the day she died. The story goes, the longest amount of time they spent apart was only six days.”

“Wow,” Louis mouths, quiet. It takes a lot to make Louis Tomlinson speechless and Harry likes to think he’s one of the few that’s privy to that. And then, after a long stretch of silence, “How’d she die?”

“A plane crash. She was only 30-something. Clark never got over it. When he eventually died, he was buried with her. To be with her forever.”

“That’s awful…” Louis says, anguished.

“I think it’s romantic,” Harry counters, quieter. He isn’t even sure Louis hears him.

“How do you know all this?”

Harry shrugs. “I read a Clark Gable biography once.”

Louis scoffs, gentle. “Course you did.” And then, as if it’s just occurred to him, “You amaze me, Harry.” 

And well… Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. So he remains silent. He watches the ceiling some more, counting the times he’s wanted to say so much and ended up saying so little.

“Louis?” he finally asks when the quietude has become stifling. He lifts his head up ever so slightly, to make out the form of Louis on the bed. “You awake?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure."

“Why didn’t you… come out? Y’know, after we split up… why didn’t you?”

Louis is quiet for a long time, and Harry wonders if he said the wrong thing. If he shouldn’t have asked.

“I didn’t see the point without you,” Louis says finally, simply. As if it’s the easiest answer in the world as if it doesn’t make Harry’s breath hitch in his throat and his chest tighten. Harry’s eyes begin to prickle and he blinks it away forcefully.

“Oh,” is all Harry can manage. It clicks into place then – the very reason Harry stopped caring about the sexuality rumours, the very reason he let people find out he’s bisexual, was the very same reason Louis didn’t come out at all. All this time and Harry had no idea Louis gave up a piece of himself, too. He just went about it differently. 

“Yeah,” Louis mutters.

“I understand.” And then, because of the darkness and the fact that he can’t see Louis’ face, and Louis can’t see his, Harry feels brave enough to say, “At Cara and Ashley’s…” He begins, and Louis makes a noise of recognition. “You said – you told me you weren’t ever going to leave me. When was the moment you changed your mind?”

“Harry…” Louis sighs deeply.

“Please,” Harry replies, quiet. He isn’t sure Louis hears until he clears his throat and speaks.

“I… I don’t really remember, specifically.”

“Yes, you do,” Harry says, stern. “I remember everything. You must too.”

Louis is quiet and all Harry can hear is the faint rustle of sheets and pillows as he adjusts in the bed.

“It’d been… I dunno, months of… weirdness. I thought maybe it’d pass. But it just got worse, so.” Louis’ voice is scratchy, vulnerable. “I felt like shit all the time. And, I dunno, I figured you did too. We weren’t happy.”

Harry closes his eyes, nodding silently, knowing Louis can’t see, but doing it anyway.

“And there was this one night… I’d been conflicted with the idea, and I just, I thought, no, I can’t do that. It’s _Harry_.” Louis pauses, clears his throat. “But this one night, you came home late and you’d been out with mates. And I’d just sat at home, wallowing in my own self-pity. And you come in the door… and you’d be laughing, shouting goodbye to your mates, I guess they’d dropped you off. It was the craziest thing. I remember thinking: he’s happy. And then you walked into the living room and saw me, and your face…” Louis trails off, and Harry’s on bated breath, waiting to hear his next words. “I’ll never forget it. Your face just fell.”

Harry suppresses a sob, covering his mouth. The tears trickle down from his eyes and directly into his hairline.

“Anyway, you went up to bed and I stayed up all night and I decided. I had to break up with you. I had to do it for you and for me. And the next day… I did.” 

Harry remembers the day, the churning in his gut, the realisation that everything was finally coming to ahead. He remembers fighting it, yelling until his voice gave out. He remembers that it made no difference; Louis had made up his mind. He remembers Louis leaving, face red with anger, cruel words exchanged between them that they could never take back. Harry remembers the end, after hours of back and forth, of Harry begging, of Louis holding his own. He remembers telling Louis he didn’t love him anymore, he remembers telling him to leave. Then there’d been the slamming of the front door and Harry shouting into their empty house. Five years evaporated in a single instant.

“I wish…” Harry begins, aborting the thought. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me,” Louis says quickly, imploring. “What do you wish?”

“I wish I’d never said anything,” Harry says, feeling a swoop of nerves at having finally said it. “Back when we were together, and I was confused and scared… If I’d known… I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut.”

Harry thinks back to the first moment he told Louis his concerns. They were sitting at the dining room table, Harry having been oddly distant for several weeks, trying to figure out where his head was at. At twenty-one, Harry felt his life was running away from him. They’d been together almost five years – five wonderful, amazing years – and yet he’d only just reached legal drinking age in the U.S. He was still a kid in so many ways. Sometimes all he wanted to do was be the restless, directionless, unsettled teenager he never got to be.

Louis went white as a sheet, knew the moment was coming. He didn’t even let Harry finish, cutting across with a defensive, _are you breaking up with me, is that it?_ Harry sighed, shaking his head, saying _No, never. How could you say that?_ He should have known that to confide in Louis when he was so vulnerable would be a mistake. He should have waited, until Louis was stronger, more willing to listen. He’d already decided before Harry even said anything that he wasn’t going to take it well. 

“Don’t say that, Harry,” Louis answers now, hoarse, bringing Harry back to the present. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, tilting his head to look at the end of the bed. He wishes he could see Louis’ face right now. He wishes he could touch him.

“Because… because you should always be able to tell me things. Even the hard stuff. I was the one that… I’m the one with regrets.”

Then he’d come out with it – a tumble of confusion, contradictory words, babbling at a speed he’d never spoken before. All his fears, all his worries, everything. He told Louis that he loved him, but he was petrified, so fucking terrified of what was to come. He rambled about not being sixteen anymore and feeling lost, suffocated by what people wanted him to be. Everyone around them was saying they wouldn’t last, that they couldn’t possibly. His fear that maybe they were right, that maybe they were just living in a fantasy, kidding themselves. _Nobody stays with their first love_ , Harry had exclaimed, almost manic. _Nobody!_

And Louis had sat, stony-faced, jaw clenched, soaking it all up, like a sponge. When Harry was finished, he’d simply nodded. Harry wanted him to laugh, he wanted him to say he was being paranoid, to not listen to anyone’s bullshit. He’d wanted reassurance. All he got was silence.

Thinking of it now, Harry understands his old fears, but nothing he felt then could compare to how he feels now. So close to Louis, yet so far away. If only he could have known, that being apart from Louis would be so much worse than anything he’d been afraid of. If only he’d known, three years down the line, that he’d still be in love with him, that he’d still search for him in every face he meets.

Harry lets out a shaky breath. He closes his eyes, feels the wet tears on his cheeks. “I was just… I was too naïve and too young. A complete idiot. I didn’t realise… I took it for granted. I took you for granted. But now…” He trails off, voice wobbling too much to speak. Being able to say the things he’s felt since they broke up, the things that have haunted him for years now, to the person it means the most to, is so overwhelming that he’s unsure he can do it. Like all the build-up, every imagined scenario he used to daydream over, has made him incapable of realising the moment.

“Yeah,” Louis whispers. “Me too.”

It wasn’t the same after that. Harry couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but over time, their bond began to untether, and Louis started building a wall around him that Harry couldn’t tear down, no matter how hard he tried. Harry realised, over time, that somewhere along the line, he’d broken Louis’ heart. And he wouldn’t be able to mend it again.

So it got messy and complicated. Between them, instead of love and understanding, was impatience and mistrust. They started arguing too much – over petty things, over big things. Harry learnt to expect bitterness and frustration, and eventually, he let his pride stop him from getting close enough to Louis to understand why they were falling apart. He thought if Louis was weak enough, sensitive enough, to turn his back on him because of this, after all the shit they’d been through, then maybe he wasn’t worth fighting for.

“I’m sorry, Louis,” Harry says, voice shaking and eyes pooling with tears. “I’m so…”

“I’m sorry, too,” Louis answers with conviction. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more understanding. I’m sorry… that I let us get here.”

“It wasn’t just you.”

“I know. But I’m sorry anyway.”

It feels like a weight has been lifted off Harry’s shoulders, he feels lighter. Freer. And yet something still feels pinned down, suffocating. The unspoken thing sits in his throat. He ruminates in it, while the silence refills the space. Then he resolutely swallows it back down. He isn't ready. 

Neither of them speaks again, and after a while, Harry can hear the laboured breathing that tells him Louis' is dreaming. Face still tear-stained, cheeks blotchy and red, Harry closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So........... 
> 
> I'm a little behind schedule at the moment. I might have to delay the next chapter's release. Just a head's up. Sorry!!! Don't kill me!!!
> 
> In other news, I'm getting restless not putting fact-checking links at the end of chapters like I did with IGIG. I told myself this fic was "chill" and that I wasn't going to "go overboard". Well. 
> 
> Let me know if you would enjoy/benefit from getting sources to canon references in here! Even if they aren't Larry related! Or if it's simply the biggest waste of my time... 
> 
> I'll put an example down below.  
>  **This chapter included:**  
>  ★ During the [Four album photoshoot](https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2aevwt), they threw a [ball](https://pics.me.me/andithinkttheidea-bchind-the-bal-ven-though-we-dont-knowtt-sthat-27916647.png) to get their attention.  
> ★ [God's Own Junkyard](http://www.godsownjunkyard.co.uk/) is a real location in Walthamstow, London. I included it because this fic is secretly a love letter to London and all the places I visited when I was on exchange there last year. It's [amazing.](https://secretldn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/Gods-Own-Junkyard-5.jpg) [Seriously.](https://secretldn.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/Gods-Own-Junkyard-3.jpg)  
> Oh and of course the cow [is a real thing](https://katherinepoole.files.wordpress.com/2015/08/2-gods-own-junkyard-cow-at-the-entrance.jpg) there.  
> ★ Harry is of course, writing [Sunflower Vol. 6](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tUUElxEGo0U)  
> ★ Harry was offered the role of Eric in the live-action Little Mermaid but [declined](https://www.cheatsheet.com/entertainment/why-harry-styles-turned-down-prince-eric-disney-the-little-mermaid.html/) due to conflicting schedules.  
> ★ Harry has [denied](https://www.pinknews.co.uk/2017/04/28/harry-styles-reacts-to-claim-he-and-barack-obama-had-a-sexual-relationship-watch/) the rumours of a secret relationship with Barack Obama ([Hobama is real](https://hellotailor.tumblr.com/post/108254242393/everythingbutlarry-au-president-obama-falls))  
> ★ [The Hollywood Roosevelt](https://www.thehollywoodroosevelt.com/) is a real and very fancy Boutique hotel in LA. The penthouse suite which is called "Gable & Lombard" (and IRL has more than one bedroom) is aesthetically the same as in the fic. You can snoop at photos of it [here.](https://www.thehollywoodroosevelt.com/rooms/tower/penthouse-gable-lombard)  
> ★ The story Harry tells Louis about Clarke Gable and Carole Lombard is [100 percent true!](https://www.countryliving.com/life/entertainment/a42401/clark-gable-and-carole-lombard-love-story/) Right down to the quote!  
> 


	10. His Heart Has Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am VERY SORRY about this being a whole week late. I did warn you there'd be a delay, and then my editor had some other commitments, so it ended up being a bigger wait than I expected. 
> 
> Anyway, the good news is I have almost finished writing the full draft of the fic entirely !!! 
> 
> Also, hoping I make up for the lateness by the fact that this chapter is way longer than the usual ones. Also... the content in it. Very good stuff. Promise. Love you all!

The morning of the American Music Awards, Harry awakes far too early. Immediately, the stiffness in his limbs is evident, his aching back flat against the hard floorboards doing away with whatever temporary sleep-induced disorientation he might’ve felt. A single bleary-eyed blink up at the vaulted ceilings and he’s rooted to the top floor of The Roosevelt _._

He’s woken up in so many places over the years, always unsure which bed he’s in, what time it is, and what country he’s in. He’s done it so many times that eventually even being home he’d wake displaced. It used to be that having the familiar warmth of someone beside him was enough to ground him anywhere. All he’d have to do is reach out and snake an arm around Louis’ waist to feel reassured that although they might’ve been halfway across the world in a completely different time zone, they were together. That was enough. It had always been enough. Until one day it just wasn’t.

The previous night’s conversation comes to the forefront of Harry’s groggy jetlagged mind, and then, because his brain is taking a little time to catch up, he realises Louis is in the room with him. He silently rises and admires the square of sun illuminating Louis’ peacefully slumbering features on the bed. His eyelashes look like honey, his hair is highlighted with gold, and he’s enveloped in what looks like a cloud of blankets. He’s almost cherubic, like a renaissance painting suspended in the Louvre.

Harry has to stop himself from staring, afraid he’ll be caught out since Louis’ such a light sleeper. He grabs a complimentary robe from the cupboard to cover his naked torso and creeps downstairs.

The morning light pools onto the floor of the living room, polished oak made bright white on contact. Harry shuffles in, socks sliding on the lacquer, feeling slightly chilly in only his boxers. His hair is a mess and he fiddles with it absentmindedly while roaming the first floor quarters. He’d been so jet-lagged last night that he’d gone straight upstairs to bed.

The living room is generous in size, sectioned off into the dining area with a long table and floor to ceiling views of Los Angeles to eat by. The decorative palm plants thrive in the corner and another smaller flowering plant sits on a pile of coffee table books in the living area.

Harry eases back into the worn red cocoa leather couch, creased and aged just enough to be inviting and comfortable. It’s situated opposite two studded armchairs and a flat-screen TV. He passes the time scrolling through his phone, catching up on the lives of friends and strangers on social media.

He’s halfway between a picture of Rita Ora on an unknown tropical beach and another of Ny nude in her bathtub, laughing freely when Louis’ Instagram handle catches his eye. He scrolls back up to see a post that makes his heart skip a beat. The photograph is mundane if you were to do nothing but glance at it, but Harry’s analysing it as if his life depends on it. It’s a photograph of Bruce, sitting like Lady Muck on Louis’ couch. He’s scruffy, butterscotch blonde fur matted and curling all over the place and the caption ‘Boyo’ is generic, one he’s used to describe the dogs in posts before. But that isn’t what is racking in millions of likes and thousands upon thousands of blue and green heart emojis in the comments section. In the background, barely cropped off, Harry recognises his own hand, cross tattoo and anchor on display. He’s sitting on the other end of the couch just out of frame, his arm draped over the back of the couch, hand limp at the wrist. The rest of him isn’t visible and if it weren’t for the identifying tattoos, you’d never know he was there with Louis at all. It’s subtle and it eludes to a life lived together outside the public eye, a life that they once shared long ago.

Harry indulges in the simple joy of being captured unawares by Louis – he certainly doesn’t remember when this was taken – and the fact that Louis felt comfortable enough to put it out in the world. His thumb hovers hesitantly over the image, and before he can think too much about it, he double taps to like it.

The warm fuzzy feeling in his belly placates him and he grabs one of the hotel notepads, watermarked with The Roosevelt logo on the top. He stares at the blank crisp page, thudding the pen against it to a beat that’s been in his mind, the same one in conversations between Mitch and Tom over the last few weeks. The last time he saw them, among a group of friends, they’d sat down and sung along to the guitar strumming, making things up as they went along. The melody is there, but Harry hasn’t been struck with inspiration for lyrics. Not properly. Not until now, that is.

> _Golden, golden, golden_
> 
> _As I open my eyes_
> 
> _Hold it, focus, hoping_
> 
> _Take me back to the light_

The song is repetitive, more so than any of his others. And this is deliberate, painfully so, if anyone were to analyse it, because it’s the single dominant thought that’s consuming him lately, the realisation that he can’t undo: that Louis is so golden, that he is sunshine bright, warming up any room he enters. There’s simply no other way to describe him and no other way for Harry to feel when he’s around.

He’s been fighting it, pitifully, ever since he arrived at Louis’ yellow front door what feels like lifetimes ago. He knows why, of course, and that’s what he’s writing next, a surge of emotion overcoming him.

> _I don't want to be alone_
> 
> _I don't want to be alone when it ends_
> 
> _Don't wanna let you know_
> 
> _I don't want to be alone_

He wants so desperately to be able to say that he isn’t under Louis’ spell anymore, and maybe he wasn’t for a while, distance will do that, but he’s bewitched again. He carries this feeling with him everywhere and it only has become louder and more demanding with time.

> _But I can feel it take a hold_
> 
> _I can feel you take control_
> 
> _Of who I am, and all I’ve ever known_

Harry stares at what he’s written and it feels like a betrayal to not tell the truth, even just this once, even if only to himself. But that’s all he’ll allow – because to say it… _the thing_ … is too much. To let it in for more than a second is too much.

Harry slowly pens his thoughts, hoping that by putting them to the page he can expel them from his body, he can rid himself of this burden.

> _Lovin' you's the antidote_
> 
> _Golden_

“Mornin’,” Louis announces his presence from behind. Harry jumps and whips around to see Louis smiling sleepily at him. His hair is sticking up at the back and his eyes are slightly puffy. He looks beautiful. “What you writing?”

Harry doesn’t understand for a moment then realises Louis is eyeing the notepad in his hands. On instinct, he clutches the page to his chest, shrouding it from view.

Louis frowns, but with a stretch and a yawn, says, “Alright, don’t tell me, then.”

“Y-you sleep okay?” Harry asks, stuttering to change the subject. Louis shuffles past the couch and drops down into one of the leather armchairs opposite Harry, legs dangling off one of the arms.

“Yeah, not bad, bit of a restless one, know what I mean? But can’t be worse than the floor,” Louis says, and noticing the dazed, sort of puzzled look on Harry’s face, he bites his lip, then asks with a touch of concern, “You right?”

Louis stares at his bare chest a moment too long and Harry blushes under his piercing cornflower blue gaze. Despite all the physicality of the last few weeks, they’ve not once slowed down enough to fully undress. One or both of them have always had a semblance of their outfits still intact - trousers around their ankles or shirt still on. And even if they had, there is nothing quite so vulnerable or as intimate as seeing each other in the morning, stripped down to their boxers, emotions just as exposed as their skin.

“Think I just wrote track one.” Harry blinks dumbly.

“For your album?” Louis asks, eyebrows quirked. Harry gives a small nod. “Sick! Well done then.”

“Thanks.”

“Guessing I’m not allowed to see it?”

Harry hesitates. “Er, well, it’s very rough and –”

“Harry, it’s okay,” Louis says, voice scratchy and low. “I’m only teasing.”

Harry sighs in relief. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Louis saw the lyrics he’d just written. It would give everything away. Everything.

“Fucking starving, you wanna order room service?” Louis says, changing the subject, and Harry is grateful. 

Harry laughs. “Fuck yes, let’s order everything they’ve got.” 

*** * ***

After returning from a dress rehearsal with his band, the rest of the day goes by in a blur. It’s the first time in a long time that Harry has been on a proper hour by hour schedule. Aside from the morning, he doesn’t see much of Louis – a glimpse of him around a corner as he frenzies over his own timetable. There’s people coming in and out of their penthouse, some who don’t even bother introducing themselves, only unpack their equipment and get to work. There’s got to be about fifteen people in total – both Harry and Louis’ teams – scuttling about in what appears as orderly chaos. Harry’s assistant talks on the phone arranging a car to take them to the event, Jane looks the epitome of flushed and frazzled, racing around the room and making sure Harry is being dutiful and sticking to her strict timetable. Louis’ is carted off upstairs sometime after lunch, his stylist looking exhausted from having to stop him from dripping McDonald’s burger sauce all over his suit during the fitting, and Harry is dragged into making decision after decision regarding even the most simple of things.

With five hours until the red carpet for the AMAs, Harry goes over the three outfit changes he has for the evening with his stylist; one for the arrival, one for performing, and one for the after-party. Racks of clothing options line the once tranquil living space of the Gable and Lombard, colourful materials being flung over couch backs and tabletops. There’s a heated debate about the choice of the white or black lace look for his performance, which despite the short notice, they still haven’t made a decision on. Louis makes a brief appearance to point out which he prefers, winking on his way back up the stairs. Harry decides to choose based on his opinion the second Louis’ out of earshot. 

The photographer arrives with dinner, which is being had in rushed bites between more important work that has to be done. She slinks into a corner and does what good photographers do best: makes herself invisible. She captures the ins and outs of Harry’s preparations, and of Louis’ too, all while appearing a wallflower.

Once the men are finally reunited in their respectful makeup chairs, Harry is afforded the brief but wonderful moment of making eye contact with Louis and simply seeing one another. They let out mirrored sighs, and then laugh, before being told to look up – or look this way or that, brushes sweeping across their faces. It used to always be like this – just him and Louis, sometimes the rest of the band too, getting ready for an event in a small hotel room. Always running late, always pure anarchy. It was torture for their team back then too because they’d always distract one another. Now they’re far less restless, no longer unfocused teenagers. But it’s still a struggle for the hairstylist to get Louis to stop craning his neck to chat to Harry or for Harry to keep still while the nail technician does an intricate design on his thumb when he just wants to show Louis a funny picture on his phone.

Jane and Helen act in place of their mothers, disapproving glances and tap to their wristwatches whenever Louis and Harry do something that deviates from the plan. For the most part, though, it’s fun. Even if it is a little chaotic.

Finally (to Jane and Helen’s relief), the time to leave arrives. Harry and Louis find themselves being shuffled into a car, with people still flitting around them, attacking their faces with last-minute touch-ups. The doors slam shut, and they’re bathed in quiet stillness for the first time all day. 

There is something so profoundly surreal about attending a publicised event such as the AMAs with Louis as his date.

They’ve been side by side every award show with One Direction, but that had been completely different. For one thing, neither of them had been out. For another, so much as a glance across the room was shunned by the powers that be. The idea that he might walk proudly with Louis by his side, hand in hand, in front of everyone, is both a dream he’s had since he was seventeen, and now, somehow, a daunting reality. Daunting because although they’ve been pictured together, this is the first time they’ve officially walked out in a business setting. It’s a statement, one that Harry never thought he’d ever make in his career. Least of all with the man who broke his heart.

“You right?” Louis asks, picking up on Harry’s dazed expression.

“What?” Harry’s eyes unglaze, refocusing on the man sitting beside him. “Oh, yeah, just... nervous, I guess.”

Louis nods, face passive. “Same, yeah.”

“Can you believe we’re doing this?” Harry asks, letting out a nervous laugh.

“No, actually. Proper weird,” Louis agrees, smiling. “But I’m glad, you know what I mean? That it’s with you.”

“M’glad too.” Harry smiles, reassured. “And... you look handsome,” he offers, feeling bashful. He frowns, shakes his head. “Not ‘look’, you _are_ handsome.”

Louis’ eyelashes flutter and he turns away, out the window, rubbing his palms along the lengths of his thighs. “So are you.”

Harry watches the back of Louis’ head, the chestnut hair tufted and styled to perfection, and he can’t understand what it is they mean to one another.

Once they arrive at the Microsoft Theatre, they’re ushered out of their car and toward the red carpet. A tall brawling man dressed in bulging all-black directs them toward a line of eager well-dressed people, their arms all outstretched with microphones, just waiting for someone to talk to. They join the procession, alongside the likes of Lizzo, who’s showing off her miniature purse to a camera crew shoved in her face, and Billie Eilish, looking effortlessly cool and a little bored.

“What can we expect from you two this evening?” the interviewer asks her thick Californian accent grating after months of the familiarity of London lilts. She extends her mic toward Louis’ mouth with an anticipatory smile on her face.

Louis looks momentarily startled as if he wasn’t expecting to answer any questions. When One Direction was at its prime, Louis was so often the mouthpiece that it became second nature he’d do the acceptance speeches and respond to whatever mundane thing E! News was asking them that week. But he’s had far less time in the spotlight as of late than Harry, taking time off over the last few years to work privately on his craft.

“Oh, well,” Louis begins, turning to look at Harry, “This one’s got a performance, later on, that’ll be sick. I’ve not even heard the song meself so!”

“Wow!” cheeses the interviewer, eyelashes blinking like fluttering butterflies. Her make up is heavy under the harsh lights of the red carpet and Harry wonders how long she’s been out here, waiting and trying not to sweat off layers of foundation. “A debut, Harry!”

Harry becomes bashful, shaking his head. He quickly leans forward and, taking the focus off himself, speaks low into the microphone. “Louis’ has music coming out soon, as well.”

“The much-anticipated album, Louis, yes! How’s that coming along? You must be excited.”

“Good, good.” Louis smiles, chuffed. “M’buzzin’. Thanks for asking.”

“Now, the other 1D boys are attending tonight… are we going to get a sneaky reunion by any chance?” She quirks her eyebrow playfully.

Louis makes a sound of apprehension, smirking in a way that he knows will drive the fans crazy. “Erm, we’ll see, we’ll see.”

Like most things in the industry, it looks spontaneous, but it’s coordinated so precisely that Harry could have counted Niall’s appearance in under his breath. The Irishman walks past and does a double-take as if he isn’t expecting Louis and Harry to be standing there. He does it well, Harry’ll give Niall credit, considering he’s never been very good at this sort of thing. Pulling his hands out of his trouser pockets, Niall’s arms open wide and he swoops Louis up into a hug.

“Good to see ya, mate.” Niall’s Irish twang is muffled in the shoulder of Louis’ suit jacket. He then turns to Harry, who squeezes Niall’s arse as they hug. Niall, a good sport about it always, lets out a raucous cackle. 

And then Liam is there and the four of them are exchanging hugs and hellos, all before the bewildered eyes of the interviewer. She’s still got her mouth agape when Harry returns his attention to hers and he frowns a little at the sight of it. It occurs to him vaguely that perhaps this woman might be a fan.

There’s a split second before all eyes land on the former bandmates, the silent moment before every photographer lined up outside the Microsoft Theatre has realised a One Direction reunion, five years in the making, is happening right in front of them. Then suddenly, collectively, everyone spots it – and even Lizzo is interrupting her interview to grin over at them. There’s shouts of _over here, boys!_ And _just a quick photo, just a quick one!_ Distinct screams of the fans lined up on the other side of the road, straining against the temporary railing holding them back, can be heard all the way through to the entrance of the AMAs.

Harry makes eye contact with Niall, whose eyebrows raise for a second, then mirrors his grin, both in awe of the reaction. They might have been prepared to surprise people with an appearance together, but they certainly hadn’t prepared for the response.

Abandoning pretence of interviews, Harry and Louis gander with Niall and Liam, well aware of the cameras that are capturing every moment. Liam complements Harry’s suit and Louis smiles with a pride Harry hasn’t seen in his eyes for a while. The four of them get lost in a bickering chat over one another’s clothes – each of the musicians had their stylists accent their clothing to compliment as a fourpiece for this exact moment on the red carpet. It’s subtle enough that most people won’t notice – Liam is in an all-black get-up with mustard buttons, Niall’s patterned shirt is just visible beneath his chocolatey plaid suit in the exact same yellow shade. Louis, who looks magnificent in his form-fitting suit, has an ochre tie as a pop of colour, and Harry, perhaps the least subtle of them all, is wearing a women’s golden velvet matching blazer and trousers.

They ignore the photographers for as long as possible before they know they have to walk the red carpet properly. Niall and Liam are photographed separately and Harry and Louis pose together not far behind. Louis banters with one of the photographers, asking over the shouting and flashes, _oh, you want a photo of the four of us, do you?_ Which makes Harry laugh and that too is captured by a dozen different cameras.

Shortly after the swarm of frenzied photographers have captured their perfect shots, the ones that will no doubt litter the fashion and gossip magazines online within a few short hours, Harry is whisked backstage to prepare for his performance. With the burn of the camera flashes still in his eyes, Harry gives a reluctant goodbye to Louis, who squeezes his hand and mutters a simple, _see you later. Good luck,_ before disappearing into the crowds of musicians and crew alike.

Harry wonders, as he’s wrangled into wardrobe with the rest of his band, just how much of what just happened was for show and how much of it was real. The lines are blurring so much now that he can’t tell. What is it, exactly, that they’re doing? And, still feeling the tingling sensation of where Louis’ hand squeezed his, he knows that he can’t deny where he stands with it all. He just doesn’t know about Louis.

He blinks and he’s on stage, head to toe dripping in delicate lace, his hands shaking slightly over the handle of the microphone. It doesn’t matter how many times he does this, the rush right before he sings to a crowd is like no other. It feels brand new every single time.

But most of all is the adrenaline of knowing that in a crowd of hundreds, the one person that matters most is here. The one person who matters most is going to hear Harry bare his soul in the amount of time it takes for Charlotte and Ny’s gentle piano chords to count him in. He breathes in, an unsteady breath, and closes his eyes.

> _I’m in my bed and you’re not here_
> 
> _And there’s no one to blame but the drink_
> 
> _And my wandering hands_

He opens his eyes, wistfully staring out at the people looking back at him, scanning the crowd for Louis. All he can see are indistinguishable faces in the dark, so instead, he keeps his eyeline trained forward, trying to keep his mind blank and focused. He takes a deep breath and his voice comes out low and guttural.

> _Forget what I said, it’s not what I meant_
> 
> _And I can’t take it back I can’t unpack the baggage you left._

Despite his efforts, the night of Halloween comes to mind, as it always does when he plays this song. Though he’d written most of it well before as a reflective, cathartic way to process their long-ago breakup, Harry found that the song took on a new meaning after their kiss. He’d actually gone back into the studio and reworked the entire first verse so that as it stands, Harry sings to Louis directly of that night, the way he acted – intoxicated and clinging to him in the pool, all the hurtful words he said after. And the following morning, that listless feeling of uncertainty. He’s still unsure now but in completely different ways.

When he sings the chorus, a rush of calm floods over him, and the next verse comes out smoother, more earnest. He’s always been an honest songwriter, but the self-awareness of this song reaches a level Harry’s never tapped into before. It’s his way of baring himself to the world, to Louis and saying _this is who I am and I’m scared._ Just knowing Louis is somewhere in the crowd, watching and listening, makes it all the more harder to sing the truth.

> _You said you care and you missed me too_
> 
> _And I’m well aware I write too many songs about you_

Charlotte and Ny’s angelic backing vocals carry him through the next chorus. He waits in the silence for the beat of his own heart to count him in. Harry feels the next line deep within his soul, closing his eyes again as he sings it with his entire being. 

> _And I get the feeling that you’ll never need me again…_

The last note echoes and Harry waits until the last second to open his eyes again. He clutches the mic, delicate fingers holding him to the moment. The single spotlight warms his skin and blinds him so that every time he looks out at the crowd, all he can see is black and all he can hear is his own vulnerable voice filling up the space.

> _What am I now? What am I now?_
> 
> _What if you’re someone I just want around_
> 
> _I’m falling again,_
> 
> _I’m falling again…_

His throat is hurting and he’s singing this so much harder than he ever did in rehearsals with so much more feeling than he ever has. As if he’s no longer singing at all, as if he’s yelling at the top of his lungs, screaming his deepest fear and strongest love for everyone to hear.

> _I’m falling…_

For a few seconds after the final piano note fades into nothing, there is only silence. A room full of people and not a single sound. And then, as if everyone unanimously recovers from their momentary dumbstruck state, a cacophony of claps. It doesn’t stop when Harry thinks it will, while he bows and mouths _thank you,_ blowing kisses to the crowd. The stage has dimmed to black and he’s heading behind the curtains, and still, he can hear the roaring support from the audience.

Harry, changed back into his red carpet look, finds his way through the rows of people and to his seat beside Louis. The lights are up on the audience and people are restlessly milling about to fill the short time during intermission. He has to make his way through a number of people who intersect his way across the room, people trying to stop and congratulate him on a great performance. He’s grateful, beyond so, especially when some of the individuals are those he’s admired for years, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel impatient as they spoke. He thanks each one with sincere gratitude - after all, his mother raised him right - but he only takes so many before he has to politely excuse himself. He dodges a few others by avoiding eye contact or waving vaguely to indicate he’s in the middle of something.

Finally, he can see Louis up ahead. A weird churning unsettles his stomach as he approaches and he recognises it as nerves. He just performed in front of hundreds of his professional peers and musical inspirations, debuting a song off his unreleased second album, his most raw and vulnerable record no less but this – just a normal bloke – _this_ is what makes him anxious.

Niall and Liam are sat in the row behind Louis, slightly off to the side, chatting among themselves. They both look up when Harry approaches and smile approvingly. Louis finally turns from looking at the stage to Harry and his face is unreadable.

Harry silently sits down beside him, easing into the plush theatre chairs, and lives in the silence. He feels small and timid.

“That was really good, H,” Louis says, raspy voice. “Great, actually. Really great.”

Harry lets out a breath, all the tension released from his body. He looks to Louis imploringly. “You think?”

“I mean it.” Louis nods his head firmly. His eye contact is intense. “Honest.”

Harry isn’t brave enough to ask for more, so he sits back and smiles to himself instead.

The evening progresses with awards awarded, speeches spoken, and songs sung to rounds of applause and hearty laughter from the audience. Between lulls or moments of boredom, Louis and Harry chat to one another and occasionally exchange remarks (more often in Louis’ case, jokes) with a strain of their necks and smiles on their faces to Liam and Niall in the row behind them. When another intermission breaks up the monotony and the man sitting beside Niall leaves his seat, Louis is game enough to climb over the lush chairs and the three of them chat more animatedly.

Harry, on the other hand, stays put, finding himself locked in an intimate conversation with a middle-aged woman he neither knows personally nor publicly. The awkward thing is, she seems to know _him_ , and in conversation about her children leaving for college and empty nest syndrome, he can’t very well ask her name now. He’s usually very good at remembering people – not only their faces but their lives too. Still, he enjoys the company of strangers, always making odd friends and acquaintances wherever he goes.

When the evening ends and Harry’s companion makes to leave, she pulls him into an unexpected hug.

“Give my love to Sheridan and Jamie for me,” Harry says into her neck, smelling of strong floral perfume and motherly love. She pulls away and pats his cheek affectionately. “I’m sure they’re missing you as much as you’re missing them.”

He turns around to find Louis watching him, bemused.

“Who was that?” Louis asks.

“Honestly?” Harry asks, combing a hand through his hair. “No idea. Lovely woman, though.”

Niall and Liam make their way to Louis and Harry’s side, having shuffled slowly through the line of people in their row blocking the exit. With a huff, Niall praises Harry properly for his performance, and Liam cracks a wide, jaw aching yawn. Harry eyes him, playing at being offended, and Liam beams sincerely, wrinkles at his eyes and promises him it isn’t his song that’s putting him to sleep.

Among the chatter, Niall extends his arm, snapping a picture of the group of them. Harry has all but a second to pose for it, blinking after from the lingering imprint of the flash on his retinas. He shrugs it off – he’s not really a selfie person, but he’s so used to posing for them at this point that his reaction time is impeccable.

“Can you send me that, Nialler?” Louis asks, leaning over to look at the preview of the image on Niall’s phone.

“Tell ya what,” Niall says, fiddling with his phone. “Since you two are behaving like proper adults for once.”

All three of their devices respond at once. Louis’ phone screen lights up, Liam’s buzzes in his jacket pocket and Harry’s vibrates in his lap. He turns the phone over to see a notification from Niall inviting him to join a What’s App group chat entitled ‘coupla geezers’.

“Who you callin’ a geezer?” Louis asks in response, the glare of his phone lighting up his affronted features. “Speak for yourself, mate.”

“Quit complaining, Tommo,” Niall mutters, still staring down at his phone, presumably changing the group background to something stupid. Louis quickly responds in turn and Harry watches the two of them silently siege war against one another.

“Brilliant!” Liam enthuses, apparently in his own world, beaming down at his phone. He looks up at the rest of them and adds, “About bloody time. I’m sick of sending three separate messages of the same thing.”

Harry accepts the group request and sees that he’s right, Louis has changed the group’s profile to a screenshot of Niall in some sort of interview, looking far from his best – one eye closed and mouth curled unattractively mid-speech.

“Fuck off,” Niall says the moment he registers this.

“Excellent picture,” Louis says with a smirk, cocky as ever. “Knew it would come in handy one day.” 

“I think you look great, Niall,” Harry adds, voice low and calm, sounding completely sincere, except for the teasing smile threatening to take over his face. Niall scowls at him.

“Unfair advantage! ‘Course you take his side,” Niall grumbles, but he appears to admit defeat, at least for now. A few seconds later, he sends the photo of the four of them to the group chat. It’s a nice photo, actually. Harry’s face is passive and he’s pulling a peace sign, next to Louis whose eyes are wide and mouth agape playfully. On his other side, an earnestly grinning Niall next to a smizing Liam. It could be mistaken for a photo taken during the height of the band – the way the four of them naturally lean into one another, looking at home. Harry’s short locks and Niall’s natural brunette hair give it away, though.

“I love you, Niall,” Harry says, palm on Niall’s shoulder and expression serious.

“Yeah, yeah, love you too,” Niall mutters, but Harry swears he sees him blush. 

*** * ***

The afterparty is hosted downtown in a massive clubbing space, full of flashing lights and exploding music that causes sensory overload. Even though Harry arrives with Liam, Louis and Niall, he loses them in the crowd quickly. He's not worried about this and uses the time to catch up with old friends, meet new people and even a stint relaxing by the bar, taking in the atmosphere. Eventually, though, his eyes catch sight of Niall amidst the crowd talking to someone who's back is to Harry. He can, of course, tell exactly who it is. He could spot Louis' head of hair anywhere. Keeping his eyes upon the Irishman, Harry filters through the dance floor and past the loudest area of the room. He knows it's gotten quieter here because as he gets nearer, he catches the end of what can only be described as a frantic, angry piece of dialogue. 

“Could do without the bloody knowing looks at us every five seconds, Niall, like we aren’t already feeling the pressure.” Louis spits his words in a low, frantic manner. Niall opens his mouth to respond and catches sight of Harry approaching. His expression quickly changes and he smiles in greeting. Louis, probably confused, whips around to see Harry standing behind him.

“Oh, Harry,” he says, trying to appear at ease. His eyes dart everywhere but Harry’s, unable to meet them, probably out of fear that Harry would be able to read what’s in them. “Want a drink? Just on my way to get one.”

“Er, sure, yeah,” Harry agrees. Louis is already exiting the conversation before Harry has a chance to add on, “Thanks.” He turns to Niall, frowning deeply. “What was that about?”

“Honestly? You.” Niall huffs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers fly to his mouth and he chews at a hangnail on his thumb. Agitated, he forces himself to stop and shoves his hand in his trouser pocket. “Christ, I’m trying not to do that anymore.” He breaks into a forced smile. “What’s the craic?”

“Good, yeah.” Harry nods, face neutral. He’s known Niall for so many years now that translating his Irish slang comes second nature. “Just relieved, you know? I always get worked up right before a performance, s’exhausting.”

Niall nods in understanding. “Know what you mean, totally.” There’s a strange pause, an awkwardness between them, and Harry’s aware that whatever heated conversation he interrupted between Niall and Louis, it’s still lingering in Niall’s mind.

“When you say that conversation with Louis was about me, do you mean…” Harry begins, calculating what he wants to say slowly.

Too slow, it seems, as always, because Niall puffs out his chest and blurts out, “You know he cried?” It’s almost conversational if it weren’t for the stormy look in his otherwise clear blue eyes. Harry frowns, unsure exactly what he means, mouth agape. “During your performance, he teared up. I saw him.”

“What?” he blunders, heart aching.

Niall nods, staring off misty-eyed. “Yeah, I know. Fucking disaster.” He sucks in a breath. “Wouldn’t mention it to you, of course, ‘cause he’s proud and that. But if you could’ve seen his face…” 

Not sure whether to feel touched or to feel guilty, Harry simply absorbs the information silently. The music, the laughter, the dancing people continue around them. Niall and Harry stare at one another, stilted.

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Harry,” Niall says in a murmur. He chews at the inside of his cheek, then sensing Harry’s confusion continues, “I love you, mate, but if you break his heart again, I dunno what I’ll do.”

Harry thinks very hard about what he’s going to say. This is the first time Niall has ever suggested that the breakup might’ve been Harry’s fault. Harry did break Louis’ heart, he’ll be the first to admit it. But Louis also broke his.

Niall was always Switzerland – in every fight, every misunderstanding, until the fiery end. Harry admired that about him, even if it drove him mad sometimes, to know that while Harry cried to him about Louis, Niall was just as likely to be Louis’ shoulder to cry on about Harry. But he never held it against him. In fact, deep down he was glad to still have even the most fragile connection to Louis in his life. 

So, after a beat, Harry slowly asks, “And what if he breaks mine?”

Niall’s hard expression crumbles. “What’ya think I just said to Louis? Same thing, of course.” He smiles sadly. “Look, you’re both my best mates. I’m not gonna pick sides, never have. And, well, it’s not even my business, but I get… well. I get nervous. When I see you both like this. It’s like…”

“It’s like what?” Harry swallows the lump in his throat.

“Like when you were together. And I know neither of ya are very good at pretending. So it sure makes me wonder.”

“This whole thing was your idea, Niall,” Harry points out, though it’s a low blow to even suggest Niall could be to blame for the complicated situation he’s got himself into. No, he’s entirely responsible for his own messy love life.

Niall’s expression darkens and he nods gravely. “I know, I know.”

Harry is wistful, contemplative. But then Louis returns, two large pints in hand, and there’s nothing else that can be said.

“The bloody beers at this place are proper dear,” Louis announces, swaggering over. He hands Harry his pint and takes a sip of his own. As if to illustrate his point, he grimaces.

Harry pouts. “It’s open bar, Louis.”

“Not the point, though, innit?” Louis shrugs, continuing to drink the frothing amber liquid. “I’d kill for a cheap beer right now, none of this fuckin’ specially brewed gourmet shit. Just a cheap as shit beer from a seedy pub.”

“Alright, grandpa,” Niall scoffs and takes this as his cue to leave. He shoots Harry a look as if to say _good luck_ before he disappears into the crowd.

“Thanks for getting me one, anyway,” Harry says, trying to hide his own amusement.

“Don’t mention it” Louis nods, swaying from one foot to the other. There’s a pregnant pause and then he adds, “ran into Sarah at the bar, by the way. She’s a proper riot, that one, isn’t she?”

“Who? Sarah? _My_ Sarah?” Harry asks, incredulous. Sarah is almost more of a wallflower than Mitch and that’s saying something. He can’t imagine she’d ever have the confidence to approach Louis in the comfort of her own home, let alone at an event like this.

“I’ll be honest,” Louis allows, amused, “I’d guess she’s pissed.”

“Oh, God,” Harry groans, eyes widening with fear. Sarah transforms when she’s drunk – into the loudest, most outgoing, social alter ego of herself. It’s sort of a running gag in the band, actually. “Mrs Jones is back,” he adds to himself.

“What’d you call her?” Louis laughs.

“Mrs Jones. It’s her drunk alter ego.” Harry waves his hands dismissively. “Like the song, you know, _Me and Mrs Jones.”_ He frowns, seriously. “She can be a bit… racy and out there after a few.” He stares off, thinking of the time Mitch had to stop her from skinny dipping in a stranger’s pool during a night out celebrating the end of tour. It’s always fun – hilarious, even – but not when Harry’s love life is at the mercy of a raucous Sarah Jones. _“_ Whatever. What did she say?”

“Not game to repeat it, if m’honest, Haz,” Louis says, teasing, narrowing one eye in a near wink, playful as always. “Nah, she’s alright, she’s alright.” He leans in close, tone shifting slightly, biting his lip and muttering, “Er, but, what… what exactly does she know? You know, about…”

“Nothing,” Harry quickly supplies, cheeks pooling with heat. “I didn’t… She’s just…”

“S’alright.” Louis waves his hand indifferently. “Just, probably better if nobody…” He trails off, gauging Harry’s response. Hoping Harry understands him enough not to have to explicitly label what he’s talking about. Harry wishes he wouldn’t, wants to grab him by the shoulders and say _what? Say it! Say it!_ Because if one of them could deign to actually articulate what’s going on between them, then maybe it’s not all in Harry’s head.

Harry’s chest winces, that sickly sinking feeling in his gut. He’s not quick enough to disguise his wounded face from Louis’ dismissal. Louis’ eyes widen and he hastens to add, “You know, just, not really anyone’s business, is it?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry nods. “You’re right.” 

Louis watches him with concern, eyes a deep stormy blue under the colourful lights. “H, you know I don’t mean-” 

“Yes, yeah. Don’t worry, Louis. I get it.”

He looks to his left and sees Camila Cabello and Shawn Mendes crooning shamelessly to their own song, _Senorita_ , and Harry wishes he could say this is the first time he’s seen a musician do that. They serenade each other melodramatically and then meet in the middle for a lip-smacking kiss. It’s showy and a little off-putting, if Harry is being honest, but it’s also weirdly sweet. He’s got no idea if they’re a real couple (with his experiences in the industry, he doubts it), but whatever they mean to each other in this moment, it’s making them happy. He turns away, wishing whatever he and Louis mean to one another, they might find themselves so blissfully happy too.

“Let’s dance.” Louis’ voice is muted over the music and hum of people talking and yelling over one another, but Harry hears the suggestion clear as day. 

“What?” Harry asks, dumbfounded, whipping around to see Louis smiling.

“C’mon, Harold.” He rolls his eyes and turns, moving toward the dense crowd of people.

The surround sound speakers are playing a steady rotation of poppy hits from 2019 – the voices of Ariana Grande, Taylor Swift, Lizzo and Cardi B playing one after the other.

He and Louis find a small empty pocket to slot into, and sync their movements to the beat of _Blinding Lights_ by the Weeknd. Louis nods his head to the steady drumbeat and when the electric keyboard sounds, Harry mimes playing it out with his fingers. Louis’ eyes are wide as he mouths _you can turn me on with just a touch, baby_ directly to Harry. 

The building verses cause the body of people to move frantically, and Louis raises his arm and points to the ceiling, a dance move Harry forgot and seeing it now sends a fond smile to his face. Harry responds in turn, equally energetic, pumping his fist and swaying back at forth. Louis does short bursts of movements, whereas Harry’s more of a full-body dancer. It’s sort of hard in confined spaces, but Harry closes his eyes dreamily and lets his body swing around wherever it feels like.

A spontaneous idea comes to mind, and Harry’s eyes open suddenly. Before he has a chance to lose his nerve, he makes eye contact with Louis.

“Come to Gemma and Michal’s engagement party with me!” Harry yells above the music, the adrenaline of music making him brave.

Louis squints and cups his hand to his ear, mouthing: “WHAT?”

Harry repeats himself, louder this time, and Louis hears him.

“What? Wait, really?” Louis asks, also yelling over the noise.

“Yes!” Harry grins, still dancing stupidly to the beat of the music. 

“Isn’t that…” Louis begins, and Harry shouts: HUH? Which makes Louis roll his eyes. “It’s your family!” He yells, getting to the point with fewer words to be misconstrued over the blasting speakers. “It’s private!”

Harry slows his dancing, frowning. “I want you there.”

Louis bites his lower lip, looking down. Around them, people are dancing wildly.

After an excruciating few seconds, Louis returns Harry’s gaze. “Alright then,” he says, then, realising he’s not being loud enough, “Yeah, okay!”

That puts an extra bounce in Harry’s step, and so the two of them return to dancing, catching the final bars of _Blinding Lights_. He ends up knocking into people, making Louis laugh. When he does it a little too forcefully, Louis grabs at his shirt and brings him closer, out of harm’s way. Harry combs a hand through his now sweaty hairline and allows himself into Louis’ space. They look at one another a moment, their dancing in slow motion, and Harry thinks something is about to happen. But then the song ends, another blasting through the speakers and the vibe is totally different. Louis’ arms fall to his side and Harry takes a subtle step back from him.

“Harry!” comes a voice through the crowd. Harry whips around in search of it, finds Sarah rushing toward him. She squeals, uncharacteristically high pitched as she pulls him into an unexpectedly fierce hug. Trailing reluctantly behind her is Mitch, whose shoulders sag, and Charlotte and Ny, who shimmy to the music as they dart through the crowd toward Harry. Charlotte’s pastel pink hair catches the disco ball lights, dotting and glowing, and Ny’s blonde mop is tinted blue from the light. Harry realises his whole band is converging in the middle of the dance floor.

“Sare,” Harry says, patting her back and laughing breathily. “How much have you had?”

She pulls back, looking daggers at him. “Not enough!” Harry makes eye contact with Mitch, whose face is deadpan as he shakes his head in disagreement. Harry has to suppress a laugh, humouring Sarah with sympathetic noises.

“I’ve made so many friends, just in the loo, would you believe it? In the loo!” she exclaims, letting out a laugh. “Amazing.”

“She was in there for forty minutes. I had to get Ny to go in and rescue her,” Mitch supplies, looking weary, but the crinkles at the corner of his eyes say otherwise.

“I walked in on her giving Rihanna advice on how to leave her husband,” Ny pipes up, New Zealand accent clipped with irony.

“He doesn’t _treat_ her right!” Sarah says defensively.

“Sarah, Rihanna isn’t married,” Ny counters. 

Harry bursts into laughter, and Mitch cringes. 

“Sare, can I talk to you for a sec?” Harry asks, gently tugging at her arm. She nods distractedly, and Harry makes faces at Louis and Mitch that he’ll return her safely. They walk only a few meters away, enough not to be overheard.

“What did you say to Louis?” he asks, biting his lip.

Sarah waves her hands sloppily. “Can’t remember. He’s so _fun._ I like him, H.” She narrows her eyes, analysing his face. “Why d’you look so worried?” She pauses, then gasps. “You slept with him!”

“Why does everybody keep saying that?” Harry shouts, exasperated.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Sarah grins like the cat that caught the canary. 

“So what if you are!”

“Oh my god, H,” Sarah says, smacking him with a drunken hand. “Are you going to shag tonight too?” She waggles her eyebrows, and Harry does a face-palm. 

“M’not discussing this while you’re drunk,” Harry says, feeling his cheeks pool with embarrassment. Although he had brought lube and condoms, hearing his own wishful thinking on the tongue of his messily drunk best friend, puts everything into a different perspective. Still, judging by the look on Sarah’s face, his words are as close to a confirmation as he could have gotten. 

“I’d say the same thing sober!” Sarah protests.

“I highly doubt that…” Harry mutters to himself.

“Oh come on, H,” Sarah slurs, leaning heavily against him. “Don’t be embarrassed. Live a little! Shag your ex! Who fucking cares!”

And he hates to admit it, but Mrs Jones has a point. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, groaning because he knows he isn’t going to deny that she’s right. 

“That’s the spirit!” Sarah says and throws her arms up in the air. 

The night falls away to laughter and dancing. Harry doesn’t have a drink beyond the beer Louis got for him at the start of the evening and he notices Louis sticks to water, as well. Because of this, the evening's pace is clear and succinct, beginning with chats in a huddle, ending with hugs upon hugs.

Niall’s accent becomes thicker and thicker the more drinks he has and Sarah remains the life of the party. Liam and Mitch form an unlikely bond, chatting quietly in a booth about their mutual love of bass guitar. Louis, Harry, and Adam catch up on old stories of touring with One Direction, fond memories that Niall and Liam interrupt to give their version of, whenever they overhear the _LouisandHarry_ modifications. It should be embarrassing, to be teased about how toothachingly sweet they were, especially when Adam tells them that all the crew knew when they thought they were subtle. But it isn’t. Of course, it isn’t.

At some point, Louis becomes Sarah’s new favourite person, and he indulges it, blushing even when she laughs hysterically at everything he says. Ny and Charlotte slip in and out of conversation circles all evening and Adam is the one to note that they’re particularly cosy when they are spotted. Harry doesn’t comment. He cannot exactly talk when it comes to interband romances.

Later in the evening, when ties have loosened and dresses are hitched up, when voices are getting hoarse and inhibitions squandered, Harry and Louis find a quiet booth in the corner, away from the music and the crowds. From their vantage point, Harry can see over the heads of countless recognisable faces – Taylor grinds against some woman he’s never seen before, probably a new girlfriend, Lizzo is dancing in the middle of a circle of cheering onlookers, and Niall is kissing Lewis Capaldi.

“Niall is kissing another bloke again,” Harry muses, gesturing to the pair. They’ve pulled apart already and Niall is wiping his mouth, pretending he hated it.

“For fuck’s sake,” Louis sighs, laughing. “After pint five he’s a goner.”

“D’you reckon he needs… the talk?” Harry suppresses a smile.

“That man is the most confidently heterosexual person I’ve ever met. Somehow it makes him more straight kissing men, you know what I mean? No idea how that works, but it does.”

Harry smiles, nodding in agreement. He stares off at Lewis and Niall, arm and arm, swaying back and forth as they yell the lyrics to _Bohemian Rhapsody_. “Somebody better let Lewis down easy,” he says, still watching them.

“Oh, to be one of many hearts broken by Neil Hor _ahn_ ,” Louis comments wistfully. “A privilege – an honour, really!”

Harry chuckles, cheeks hurting from the evening of laughter and chatter.

“It’s good to see you smile,” Louis says suddenly and Harry turns to look at him. His eyes are soft. “I feel like all I’ve done lately is upset you.”

“That’s not true,” Harry says, frowning. He’s not even saying it to make Louis feel better, he really believes it. It feels like they’ve gone through so much together since Harry showed up at Louis’ front door that first night. Some of it’s been messy and painful – the fighting, the snide remarks – but more often lately, Harry feels excited around Louis. _Happy_ around him. “And anyway, it’s not s’exactly all your fault. I’ve not been… very understanding. Selfish, really.”

Louis contemplates what Harry says, trying to contradict him. He lets out a laugh when he realises he can’t. “Okay, so maybe we’ve both been dickheads.”

Harry grins. “Correct.”

“I _did_ wanna ask you, though…” Louis looks down at his hands, picking at a hangnail on his thumb.

“Mhm?” Harry asks, resting his cheek against his fist.

“What you said… at Cara and Ashley’s.” Louis licks his lower lip. “In the pool house. Did you mean it?”

“What did I…?”

“That you hate me.” The words spill out of him, uncontrollable. He doesn’t even let Harry breathe out before he’s adding, “I mean, I think you don’t – not anymore, I don’t know – but if you had, I wanna know, I guess. Or maybe I don’t.”

“Louis,” Harry cuts across, stern and deliberate. Louis shuts his mouth, staring at Harry’s intense gaze. Harry’s heart is in his throat and suddenly his mind is on sensory overload. Because the second he thinks _I don’t hate you_ he also thinks _I love you._

He pauses, the impact of this realisation hitting him full force, right here in the middle of a crowded room with Louis watching him earnestly. He thinks back, trying to actively pinpoint the moment everything changed. The very nature of this love of Louis, though, is not as simple as that. He doesn’t remember not loving him. In some shape or form, his heart has belonged to Louis since he was sixteen. It just got a little lost somewhere along the way. But it’s returned to its rightful place now. His heart has come home.

“I could never hate you,” Harry promises, having to swallow a lump in his throat and blink back the emotions that surged to his eyes. When Louis opens his mouth, ready to protest, he continues more assured, “ _Even_ back then. I never hated you. That was the problem. I wished I hated you, it would’ve been easier. It’s like that Jane Austen quote. ‘ _If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more_.’”

“Half Moon,” Louis says, voice rising at the end like it’s a question.

“What?” Harry asks blankly, and admittedly, with a touch of annoyance. He’s dumbfounded by the sudden departure from the topic. Harry basically told Louis he loves him and his response is to talk about the phases of the moon. What has that got to do with anything right now?

Louis cusses under his breath. “What’s the point of a code word if you don’t even... was meant to be sort of romantic.”

Harry frowns and then realisation dawns. Their conversation weeks ago, at dinner. If they were ever in public and they needed to be physically intimate, their code word is meant to be a warning. A way to ask, is this okay?

“Half Moon,” he repeats, sounding out the words with a whole new understanding. It may as well be _I love you._

“We’re in public... and er.” Louis scratches the back of his neck. “Well, can I kiss you?”

Harry blushes, he actually blushes. But he nods and smiles. “Yes,” he says, feeling giddy.

Louis looks relieved and a little nervous. Although their alcove affords a certain level of privacy, they’re still on display, to a degree. There are people in the booths next to them, people walking past, huddled dancing nearby. And not just people, but industry people, important people. But Harry finds he doesn’t care. Let them see if they want. For once in their life, the threat of being seen holds zero weight. Everybody knows, at least, on the surface. And, surrounded by equally or far more famous people, Harry and Louis snogging in a corner is no longer front-page news. What a relief.

When Louis leans in, slow and sure, their lips meet with a sweet chasteness Harry didn’t expect. It’s barely open-mouthed. Louis’ lips taste like the cinnamon gum he was chewing before the AMAs, mixed with a hint of beer breath that Harry’s actually quite fond of.

As the first kiss since realising he’s in love again, the tingling sensation is insurmountable. He goes weak at the knees and blood pools to his cheeks. He’s a teenager, this is their first kiss, and there’s a clean slate ahead of them, with no messy breakups, no unforgivable fights, no pain. Just the naive hopefulness of the future. That’s what kissing Louis is like. It’s believing in love and happily ever after again.

When they pull back, Harry’s eyes linger closed, sure he’s in a dream. When he does open them, Louis looks back at him, an expression of adoration on his face. Harry drinks it in: Louis’ clean-shaven face glowing shades of pink to blue to green under the changing effervescent lights. His dewy tan skin from dancing too long - sweat has never looked better. His eyes are hooded, jaw and cheekbones sharp in contrast to the softness of his lips. Harry wants to kiss him again, so he does.

This time it’s longer and hotter and Louis only pulls away to stand up, manoeuvre himself out of the booth. Then he kisses Harry again and grabs his hand, leading him out of the after-party without even saying goodbye to anyone.

The ride back to The Roosevelt is torturous, sitting on opposite ends of the backseat, anxious waiting to be alone together. Harry spends the entire ride just thinking of Louis being all over his neck and wondering how either of them has managed to have self-control right now. But he also knows, as he’s sure Louis does from experience, that they really shouldn’t start anything they can’t finish. So silence, with the sexual tension building between them, is for the best.

When they arrive and the elevator is too slow, Louis actually curses and thinks aloud that it’d be faster to take the stairs. Harry has to laugh at that, reminding him they’re on the top floor, and by the time they get there, they won’t have the energy to kiss at all.

The second they’re through the penthouse front door, they’re backed up against it, kissing intensely. Harry rushes to undo the buttons on Louis’ shirt; if it weren’t so expensive, he’d just rip the whole thing off entirely. Both of them have already forgotten the floor plan of the penthouse, kissing their way through first the entryway and then the bathroom, before remembering the bedroom is upstairs.

They make it to the top of the stairs, over the threshold and into the Tower before Louis’ lips crush against Harry’s. Harry lets out a gruff noise of surprise, eyes still open for a second. And then he closes them and kisses Louis back, allowing himself to be backed up against the mirror wall. It’s cold and hard against his spine, but he doesn’t care. He’s far too focused on the grating, feverish kisses.

“Lou…” Harry whispers, feeling the hot trail of Louis’ kisses down his chest, the sharp pain every time Louis nips his skin with his teeth. He tilts his head back hard against the reflective glass, eyes lulling closed. He loses himself in it for five whole seconds, then forces himself back to reality. “Wait. Stop.”

Louis pulls back, stilling with his hands still pressed into Harry’s side. He stares up at Harry, neck straining, eyes blazing. “H, you right?”

Harry looks down at him, realising he’s making a big mistake. How can he deny this man?

“Yes…No.” He frowns.

“Okay…” Louis’ hands drop from Harry’s thighs, and he pulls his arms across his naked chest, defensive.

“I just,” Harry starts, silted. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Don’t do this unless… _I can’t_ do this unless it’s real.”

“Real?” Louis asks, his voice hoarser than usual. He scratches at the dagger tattoo, looking somehow more beautiful than ever.

Harry huffs and his shoulders slacken, aware that he’s broken the spell they were both under, the heated bewitchment of their arousal for one another dissipating quicker with every second. 

“Do you not… want… me?” Louis asks after a beat, eyes flicking to the floor. The long shadows and shards of light reflected from the outside onto the mirror put his features in sharp focus. The light of the window pane against his cheekbone is a beautiful sight.

“No –” Harry begins and Louis flinches, “No, I mean – _yes,_ I do. That’s not it.”

Louis reluctantly stands to his fullest height, body language itching with unease and nerves. “Then what is it?”

Harry palms the mirror behind him, pressing the pads of his fingers into the shiny surface. His rings make a gentle clinking noise on contact. “I want to fuck you right now.”

Louis’ eyes turn from pained to seductive.

“ _But_ …” Harry continues, forcing himself to stand confidently. “I won’t do this like we’ve been doing anymore. It’s… confusing. This - this _thing_ between us. Aren’t you confused?” he implores, and although what he’s saying is heavy and serious, his tone is inexplicably soft. He moves his hands around in vague gestures. “S’like… amazing, and hot…” He lets out a self-deprecating huff of laughter. “But it’s also…” He frowns, looking at Louis imploringly. “Intense and… _secretive_ and sometimes it feels like it happens in a blur. As if maybe if we do it enough we can rid ourselves of it. And then we don’t talk about it after. It makes it feel… like it isn’t real.”

“Of course it’s real,” Louis answers. “This – with you – is about as real as it gets for me.”

“Kay,” Harry mumbles, eyes downcast.

“Hey.” Louis takes a step toward him, pressing his hand flush against Harry’s abdomen. “I hear you. I feel the same.” He pauses, allowing his hand to gently caress. “No more stupid games, alright?”

Harry’s expression softens. “Alright,” he agrees, relieved.

“So…” Louis begins, hand still on Harry’s middle. The feverishness of earlier is replaced with gentle movements. His other hand moves slowly now, finding the nape of Harry’s neck. Harry’s breathing becomes almost laboured in the anticipation. Louis rises to the tips of his toes so that he’s eye level. He leans in, hot breath against Harry’s ear. Harry’s heart palpitates frantically in his chest. “You going to fuck me then?”

Harry shudders, surging forward with a fervent nod of his head. He dips at the knees and in one swift motion, grasps Louis’ thighs, lifting him up. Louis lets out a surprised squeal and then a soft laugh. He flings his arms around Harry’s neck and brackets his legs around Harry’s waist. He clings to him as he’s carried toward the bed.

Distracted by Louis sucking a hickey into his neck, Harry nearly stumbles over the pile of pillows and blankets at the foot of the bed.

“What the –” he mutters and they both glance down at the very spot on the floor Harry slept in the night before. “Oh, fuck that,” Harry laughs, kicking the pile out of the way, much to Louis’ amusement.

“Won’t be needing that,” Louis agrees with a mischievous smirk, bringing a dimpled smile on Harry’s face in return.

They land in the centre of the pristinely made bed with a soft thud. It feels bizarre that only 24 hours before they couldn’t even share this space simply for sleep. Louis’ legs fall open easily and Harry settles between his thighs. His arms brace either side of Louis’ head, Harry easing down on top of him, their bodies aligning, heated skin to skin. His breathing becomes shaky, aware of Louis’ hardness beneath his own.

When their mouths connect again, it’s slow and sensual. Unlike any of the kisses they’ve shared recently, this one is intended to last. It’s long and heady and Harry feels it to his very core. Both of them let out sighs of satisfaction, setting a pace of languid pleasure as mouths open and tongues lock. When Harry grinds down against Louis’ crotch, Louis groans low and guttural, his legs coming up and wrapping around Harry’s middle.

He feels a tingling sensation wherever Louis’ hands’ touch – combing through his hair, cupping his hips, groping his ass. Whatever Louis does, Harry responds keenly, kissing him with passion. He gets lost in the soft warmth of Louis’ bare chest, grates his fingers down from the _It Is What It Is_ tattoo, eliciting a pleasurable tremor from Louis. The feeling of their naked skin touching makes him giddy.

“Did you bring –”

“Yes,” Harry answers a little too quickly. He becomes sheepish at the way Louis raises his eyebrows. “Shut up.” He ducks his head into the crook of Louis’ neck, embarrassed.

“No, it’s… uh, good.” Now it’s Louis’ turn to look sheepish. “Was worried we’d have to call room service or summit.”

Harry grins to himself at the image, still shrouding his face from view. Judging by Louis’ soft tone, he’d hoped this might happen too. That sends a shiver along Harry’s spine, excited.

“Well?” Louis prompts.

Harry lifts his head to see the expectant look on Louis’ face. He bites his lower lip and that’s all the motivation Harry needs, really. “Right.” He beams, presses a kiss to Louis’ cheek and adds, “Back in a sec.”

“Don’t bother coming back with trousers on!” Louis hollers after him. 

When Harry returns from the walk-in wardrobe – thanking his past-self for his wishful thinking when packing – Louis awaits, hair tousled and completely undressed. He flushes at the sight, scratching the back of his neck.

“Don’t act coy now, Harold.”

Harry chuckles, approaching the bed and placing a condom packet and the bottle of lube down on the nightstand. He tries to disguise his nerves, wringing his clammy hands before rejoining Louis on the bed. He knows he’s shaking slightly, but the solidness of Louis’ eye contact seems to steady him. Then he leans in, pressing a warm kiss to Louis’ ready mouth.

They kiss like that for a while, soft and tender. Harry feels like a teenager again, when this was as far as they’d ever gone, snogging on Louis’ single bed, the hours disappearing. Back then, even the ghost of a touch below the belt sent shivers of excitement and nerves all over his body. Back then, everything was new and exciting. In this moment, they’ve recaptured that enamoured innocence, that precursor to everything that was to come. They’re on the precipice of it and Harry can tell Louis wants it too because he’s looking at him with such serious ardour.

So the next time Harry kisses Louis passionately, he lets one of his hands trail down to Louis’ ass, gently caressing his opening. He gauges Louis’ response, the way he whines and grapples at Harry’s waist, digging his fingers in appreciatively. 

“Do you want me to-” Harry begins, still stroking between his cheeks carefully. It’s a preference thing – fingers – and he knows Louis likes it, knows it helps open him up… but they’ve not done this in so many years. It’s only polite to ask.

“Yes,” Louis answers before he can finish, nodding. Whatever fear Harry might’ve had that he doesn’t still know Louis intimately, evaporates. “Now.”

Harry starts by removing his chunky rings, placing them on the side table with a clatter. He gets the lube and coats his middle and index finger generously. Louis watches him do this, legs bent at the knees and face eager. Harry places the tip of his pointer finger directly over the warmth of Louis’ hole and Louis’ head lands back against the pillows, back arching. Louis is already aroused enough that the process is a smooth one; a single finger slipping in, and then two pumping easily back and forth.

When Louis appears sufficiently relaxed and spread open, Harry gently eases his fingers back out. Louis opens his eyes and frowns down at Harry between his legs.

“Patience…” Harry warns, smirking. He tears open the condom packet, hasty and eager to get this part over with. Then, he moves into position, getting the go-ahead from Louis who’s propped himself up onto his elbows, looking at Harry expectantly. He guides himself in, very carefully, holding the base of his dick steady. Once he can let go, he positions himself suspended above Louis, easing halfway in. 

Louis sucks in a sharp breath, wincing slightly. He closes his eyes in concentration.

“You okay?” Harry murmurs, ducking down to place a ghost of a kiss on the side of Louis’ mouth. His own voice sounds foreign in his ears, all whiny and shaky.

“Mhm,” Louis says, biting his lower lip. “Yeah… good.”

Harry takes that as a sign to continue and he shifts his weight so that he can push himself further inside Louis. He holds his breath, steadying himself through the movement. It sends waves of arousal through his body, all the way to the tips of his fingers. Once he’s completely inside, flush against Louis’ ass, his shoulders relax and he can breathe again. He stays still, allowing Louis’ body to adjust to the full feeling.

Louis’ chest heaves and his mouth is agape, silently immersed in Harry. He’s totally pliant under Harry’s touch, turning his head so that Harry can kiss along his neck tenderly. When usually he has something witty to say, he’s completely quiet, aside from his laboured breathing. Louis’ dominant personality seems to fade, making way for vulnerable submission now they’re alone like this. All the other encounters until now feel like they were with a different person. This is the Louis that Harry loved. No, that Harry _loves._

When Harry feels they’re both ready, he pulls back to look at Louis. He perches above him by the balls of his hands in the mattress, watching Louis squirm and buck up against him. The mewling sounds coming from Louis’ mouth makes Harry groan, bunching his fists into the blankets. 

And then, with a gentle swing back of his hips, Harry begins to fuck Louis nice and slow. The first thrust sends ripples of pleasure all over him, making Harry’s skin prickle hot and on edge. Louis moans loudly, tilting his head back into the mattress. Harry, in turn, squeezes his eyes shut and matches Louis’ sounds with his own, moving in and out at a teasing, agonizing pace. It takes a lot not to move faster, especially with Louis’ hands digging into his rear, pushing him further toward him. But he does it because he wants it to last. Because he wants to fill Louis up and watch the way he comes undone at his touch.

They fall into a familiar rhythm – choreographed together from years of knowing each other on an intimate level. It’s like riding a bike or playing _Sign of The Times_ on the piano - muscle memory. Harry’s hands everywhere, lips bruising Louis’ neck in a way he forgot, until now, makes Louis moan, animalistic. He could do this with his eyes closed. And he does, blissfully trailing his hands across Louis in the dark.

Harry slouches over Louis’ body as he thrusts into him, slow and methodical. The friction of Harry’s lower stomach moving against Louis’ exposed dick elicits new, louder groans from the man. The sound is intoxicating and Harry shifts his weight onto one elbow so that his other hand might rest between them, stroking Louis idly. 

“Harry,” Louis sighs, breath hitching and hips jutting up off the bed. “ _Fuck,_ Harry.”

When they kiss again, it’s lazy and sloppy; mostly just groaning into one another’s open mouths. Eventually, they give up on kissing entirely, Harry resting his head into Louis’ chest, Louis raking one hand down Harry’s back, the other holding fistfuls of his dark curls.

They’re a mess – all passion and no elegance – but it’s coordinated somehow. Each time Harry fucks into Louis, ever so slightly faster than before, their breathing becomes synced. The heat of one another’s skin is searing, both of them sweaty and panting.

The combination of Harry inside him and his hands on him makes Louis babble incessantly, repeating Harry’s name over and over under his breath, with combinations of swear words and _Jesus Christ_. This is a sign that he’s close; unable to control himself, shaking slightly. So Harry pulls back, readjusts himself to a seated position between Louis’ thighs. He gently slips a hand under Louis’ rear, bringing him up off the mattress and pulling him closer. Louis moves willingly, eyes closed and brows knitted. Harry props Louis’ thighs on top of his calves, giving him better purchase.

Pinning Louis in place with strong hands into his hips, Harry increases his speed, the force of his thrusts making them sway in tandem. At this angle, he’ll be able to hit his prostate.

Louis pushes his fringe out of his face, where it was sticking sweaty to his forehead. He licks his lower lip, opening his eyes to stare intensely up at Harry. He forms half-sentences under his breath, trying to articulate himself to no avail, the words dissolving into moans on his tongue. He strokes himself, slow at first and then quicker and messier. And then he’s completely mute, mouth wide and eyes hooded, still watching Harry fucking into him. It’s only a few seconds of silence before he’s orgasming in a shudder that shakes his whole body. Then he can’t help but close his eyes as his stomach tenses and ribbons of cum decorate his torso.

Harry, whose own orgasm has been building steadily - belly clenched and hips bucking – does away with self-control. With Louis barely recovering, Harry surges toward him, kissing him with wet, sloppy kisses. Louis clutches Harry’s neck, their foreheads bumping, pressing together. He thrusts hard once, twice, and the third time - with Louis’ tongue in his mouth and hand on his arse – comes in a rush. He stills inside him at the moment of his orgasm, arousal pooling hot and sticky. He groans loudly against Louis’ mouth if only to stop the instinct of saying _I love you_ while dizzy and high off arousal.

The release is so much more intense than any other time they’ve gotten off together recently that Harry feels like a live wire, his whole body hypersensitive. He collapses against Louis’ chest, feels the warm embrace of Louis’ arms around him. The love confession on his mind, repeats like a taunting broken record: _I love you, I love you, I love you._ Now that he’s accepted it, he can’t unthink it. It threatens to fly off his tongue at any moment, the truth hanging between them - unspoken, unheard.

Louis’ heartbeat races against Harry’s own. Their breathing synchronises and Louis’ fingers delicately trace circles into Harry’s shoulder. _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ he thinks.

He stays quiet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up usual time! 
> 
> ★ The American Music Awards were held on [November 24th of 2019](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Music_Awards_of_2019) at the Microsoft Theatre. The timeline of the fic follows this exactly!  
> ★ Harry is writing [Golden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enuYFtMHgfU).  
> ★ In an [interview](https://youtu.be/moIOVVEIffQ?t=1355) Harry stated that when he wrote Golden, he knew it would be the first track on Fine Line.  
> ★ The photographer in the penthouse is based on Harry’s actual Live On Tour photographer, [Helen](https://www.instagram.com/helenepambrun.photography/).  
> ★ I watched a lot of celebrity GRWM videos on YouTube to be as accurate as I can about the prep-time before a red-carpet event. If you’re curious, watch [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zk8daf2-v-s) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAigvAeOoqQ).  
> ★ Harry’s red carpet outfit is inspired by [this](https://cdna.lystit.com/photos/topshop/832e45a5/topshop-Ochre-Bonded-Velvet-Blazer.jpeg).  
> ★ Harry’s performance of ‘Falling’, is based on the [real performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFSFpHjsLY0) at the 2020 Brit’s Awards.  
> ★ Liam has [confirmed](https://www.esquireme.com/content/45521-liam-payne-says-one-direction-is-having-its-first-group-face-time) in recent interviews that OT4 does have a group chat.  
> ★ Niall and Lewis Capaldi’s dancefloor pash is based off the [real incident](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTVL0KjfrrE).


	11. Are You Leading Or Am I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 1D 10th anniversary you legends! Hope you're recovering from this week's clownery. Maybe this chapter will help. Enjoy!

Harry awakes to a tangle of limbs and soft Los Angeles morning light on his face. For a fraction of a second, he assumes he’s still asleep. Dreaming of Louis’ arms wrapped around his middle and their legs entwined. And then Louis stirs and the spell doesn’t break, and when his clear-blue eyes open and meet his, Harry realises that although this might be a dream, he’s definitely not asleep. 

“Mornin’,” Louis grumbles, squinting up at Harry through sleep-groggy eyes. He stretches with a groan, flexing against Harry, before relaxing back into him.

“Morning.” Harry smiles, dazed in the best way. He turns so their bodies are flush and nuzzles into Louis’ side.

“Sleep alright?” Louis asks, accepting Harry with a gentle caress, combing through his hair absentmindedly and sending blissful shivers down Harry’s spine.

“Perfect,” Harry mumbles into his chest. “You?”

“Mhm,” Louis agrees, then yawns. “What time’s it?”

“Who cares,” Harry replies, which elicits a gentle chuckle from Louis. He can hear it echo through the other man’s chest beneath his head.

Later, they’ll have to get out of bed and do the things that regular humans do, like eat and shower and pack their suitcases. Harry will have to call to confirm his appointment with Celeste because it would be a shame not to chat to his favourite Southerner in person for the first time in months. He’ll even have to respond to those who spotted him on the red carpet last night, who want to squeeze in a coffee, or a drive around the Hills, before Harry’s flight back home. But right now, Harry doesn’t want to think about any of those things. He just wants to live and die in Louis’ arms. 

Eventually, Louis props himself up, leaning across and kissing Harry chastely on the lips. Harry smiles dreamily up at him, chasing Louis’ mouth with a kiss of his own before slumping back down into the cloud of duvet. They stay like that, Louis sat up against the headboard, scrolling on his phone, while Harry’s long limbs entangle his torso. Harry drifts in and out of half-slumber, waking to readjust himself or hold Louis closer. Louis traces along Harry’s tattoos, gentle and calming. 

“Is nothing sacred?” Louis exclaims, sitting up in a jerking movement. Harry, a little disgruntled by the sudden movement, blinks up at him, puzzled. Louis stares down at his phone, brows knitted before he turns the screen to show Harry. The article shows a photo of Liam at last night’s AMAs beneath a headline: **One Direction’s Liam Payne hints at Reunion**.

“For God’s sake, Liam,” Harry sighs, taking it upon himself to sit up now.

Louis clears his throat, reading out the first few sentences of the article. “ _The What Makes You Beautiful singers are approaching their 10 year anniversary and fans are beginning to speculate what the foursome might have in store for July. At last night’s AMAs, we got our very first taste of the months to come, with Liam, Louis, Harry, and Niall posing for photos on the red carpet. Better yet, bandmate Liam Payne went so far as to assure us ‘something exciting is definitely in the works’._ ” 

Once he’s finished reading, Louis gives Harry a look of complete exasperation. Harry responds by facepalming, chuckling into his hands.

“Liam running his mouth to the press is going to be his downfall,” Louis says through gritted teeth.

“Should I order the hit on him now or later?” Harry asks, smirking.

Louis shakes his head, tongue between his bottom lip and top teeth. “I’ll handle it,” he assures Harry, not a hint of sarcasm.

Harry, amused, slouches back into the bed, scrolling through his Instagram. It’s a few seconds later that he gets a notification for the group chat: _Liam James Payne, another word from you and I’ll be egging your house. Consider yourself warned._ Followed by several middle finger emojis.

Harry cackles, covering his mouth when Louis gives him a dark look.

“I expect your support in this, Harold,” Louis says, pouting. He throws his phone across the bed, folding his arms dramatically.

“M’sorry. You’re right,” Harry says soberly. He forces the smile off his face. “Very serious.”

“I swear if this whole thing gets spoilt because of Liam’s big mouth, I’ll…”

Louis is furious, but Harry is struggling to see the problem. Instead, Harry adopts a deeply unconvincing frown and Louis sees right through it. Harry turns to his phone, and, scanning past the responses from Niall and Liam which are already flooding in, responds with his own: an egg emoji, followed by a scrambled egg in a pan emoji, followed lastly by a big red X.

“Simple, but effective,” Harry says.

“You’re the worst.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Harry grins, dimples on display. He leans into Louis’ side, eyes imploring in the way he knows will crack Louis instantly. “It’s funny.” He brings his thumb and forefinger together, demonstrating an inch. “A little bit?”

Louis purses his lips and looks as if he might try and fight it, but then rolls his eyes and sighs. “It’s a bit funny,” he agrees, looking disgruntled, but his smile gives him away. 

* * *

The month of December is characterised by endless downpours of rain over London and the constant threat of snow. Though the latter never quite shows its face, the icy breeze and perpetual wet weather has Harry indoors more often than usual. So when his phone is alight with messages, he’s delighted to find the group has organised an impromptu celebratory evening out to the pub in honour of their reunion tour announcement.

Niall chooses the venue – a traditional Irish pub in the heart of South London – and he sucks in a deep breath when they enter the doors.

“Smells like the motherland,” he muses, closing his eyes dramatically.

“What, and Ireland smells of piss and drunk blokes, does it?” Louis asks, still finding a way to make a joke through chattering teeth. His hands are fisted in his jacket pockets, body slouched forward, shaking all over.

Niall considers this a moment, then shrugs. “Pretty much, yeah.”

The four of them nestle into a corner booth, lit by the glow of a nearby fireplace. Niall quickly abandons the table to order drinks at the bar. Harry sidles in first and Liam follows, in the midst of telling him a story about something cute his son did over the weekend. Louis clears his throat, hands on hips, giving the oblivious Liam a pointed look.

“Oh, so it’s like that again is it?” Liam grumbles, reluctantly sliding back out of the booth and standing.

“Thanks, Payno, you didn’t have to do that!” Louis grins, patting him on the shoulder and slipping in beside Harry. Harry can’t contain his dimpled smile, trying not to blush. “Good lad, good lad.”

Liam shakes his head, but sits back down next to Louis and resumes his story.

“I want no complaints from anyone,” Niall announces, carrying a large tray with four pints atop over to the booth. He gently lowers it, biting his tongue between his lips in concentration. “This shit is liquid gold, a’right? If we’re havin’ a toast, it’s gotta be Guinness.” 

Once the four of them are properly sat down, a pint in each man’s hand, Liam clears his throat and raises his glass.

“A toast to us, lads! To ten years of One Direction and many more!”

“To us,” Harry says, voice low and glass high.

“Here, here!” Niall hollers at the same time that Louis shouts, “ _Oi, oi!_ ”

The pints clink in the centre of the table, beer sloshing over the sides and foaming down the glass. Harry gets a splash of the sticky beer on his hands, grimacing.

“And,” Liam adds, turning to give both Harry and Louis a pointed look, lips pouting and all. “Cheers to you lads, sorting yourselves out. Proper chuffed, just like the old days.”

“Er, Liam…” Louis begins, looking to Harry for assistance. Harry shrugs, unsure what to say.

“You know we’re not actually back together, don’t you, Liam?” Harry finally supplies, Louis seemingly having gone mute. It feels wrong, almost, to say it. Like it’s a lie. Because for all intents and purposes, they are back together. At least, Harry thinks they are. But there’s an unspoken agreement since the afterparty, that whatever this is – it’s theirs and theirs alone. Complicating things further by telling people, even those they trust and love just doesn’t seem right. At least not right now. The pressure is already immense, why add more weight to it?

“What?” Liam laughs, and then, when neither Harry nor Louis joins in, his face falls. He drops his beer with a thud on the table, splashing it everywhere. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Louis gulps, fidgeting slightly with the cuff of his jacket. Harry slides a hand onto his thigh under the table and squeezes it reassuringly. “Dead serious, Payno. We’re mates, again, but that’s… that’s it.”

Liam frowns, looking to Niall who takes a large swig of his beer so he doesn’t have to contribute. The whole scenario feels like a poorly executed skit. Like there should be some sort of punchline and canned laughter. Harry wants to shrink away and hide from the earnest, sorrowful look on Liam’s face. He’s the hardest to lie to, the worst person to let down. But if they told him and then messed it all up again? God, Harry couldn’t live that down. It didn’t just break his and Louis’ heart when they ended things the first time. He can’t put the band or anyone else through that again. Not unless they’re sure.

Harry feels the same way he felt years ago when they first lied about their relationship. At the time they’d been so afraid that Liam, Niall and Zayn would be so adamantly opposed not only to the gay thing but the dating within the band thing, that they would implode the whole band if they told them the truth. They soon realised that they should’ve had a little more faith in their new friends. Harry remembers the day they finally told them, after a series of incriminating instances that simply could no longer be denied – _yes, okay, shit. Haz and I are a thing. A proper relationship thing. Happy?_ And in fact, they had been. Zayn had patted them both on the backs and muttered words of approval, Niall had grinned like the cat that caught the canary, and Liam cried. _Actually_ properly cried. Then they’d made jokes about Louis and Harry dividing the band like John and Yoko did the Beatles, and Harry had pretended to be offended because _wait, why am_ I _the Yoko?_ And before the five of them knew it, nothing had changed and everything had.

Now, one band member short, four albums later, and a lot of pain and joy in between, celebrating ten years since this whole thing began, there’s something of a bittersweet twinge in Harry’s heart. He looks to Louis, whose face has gone soft and vulnerable. Even though it’s for the best, it doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. Louis’ hand finds Harry’s under the table and squeezes it in return.

“Oh, um, well, alright.” Liam gathers himself, blinking rapidly to conceal his emotions. “My mistake.”

“Alright, give us a look, then,” Louis says, suddenly changing the subject, puffing up his chest. 

The four of them gather around Niall’s phone, scrolling through the pictures, that mere hours ago went live across all of One Direction’s official social media platforms. The photograph that is being used as the face of the reunion tour promotion pays deliberate homage to the _Made In The A.M._ album cover. The four bandmates lounge on a large leather couch beneath an eclectic mix of signs – one that says _disco!_ in garish 70s font, the word _cabaret_ flashing and _GIRLS_ inside a neon heart. 

In the image, Harry sits on the top of the back of the chair. Sidled up next to him, Louis, on the arm of the couch, laughing up at something Harry has just said. He wishes he could remember what that was, but he's also just thankful someone was able to capture that smile, suspended in time forever. Next to them sitting on the couch, leant up against one another, Liam is mid-speech and Niall appears to be laughing, mouth wide and eyes glinting.

The banner above their faces reads **_ONE DIRECTION: THE REUNION TOUR_** still in that god awful signature font, only this time it’s been edited to have a glow like a neon sign. Some things don’t change. Beneath it the simple subtitle: _To celebrate One Direction’s 10 year anniversary, the foursome is going back on the road again for an exclusive limited world tour._ They had, of course, reached out to Zayn. It wouldn’t have been right not to. He’d been grateful but declined. They’d expected as much. It didn’t change anything; Zayn would always be a part of the One Direction family. But they respect his choice, nonetheless. 

Along with a graphic showing the tour dates, the caption beneath the picture reads simply: _Tickets go on sale Boxing Day 2019._

“That’s class, that’s class,” Louis says, almost to himself, really. He nods going through the photos with a proud look on his face.

“Proper professional,” Liam agrees.

The rest of the series is actually pretty good too, Harry thinks. Great even. In them, the spontaneity is evident, and the casual joy on their faces speaks volumes. Their new marketing team chose an array that spoke to One Direction’s new image, who they are as individual solo artists as well as a collective. They have access to all of the photos, outtakes included, and they spend more time looking at those than the media and fan response online. Judging by the fact that the One Direction website is down and all of their mentions are exploding, people are excited. 

The photos taken outside God’s Own Junkyard, natural sun beaming down on them, catches the foursome in action. Niall, mid-laugh, Liam speaking, and Louis and Harry sharing a private, knowing glance. Harry doesn’t actually remember that being taken. They certainly didn’t pose for it deliberately. In another, Louis attempts to climb onto the colourfully painted cow statue in front of the garage roller door. The worlds ‘love’ painted in pink capitals are just visible through the gap in his legs as he mounts the farm animal. Niall is giving the statue a kiss on its nose, Liam looks concerned for Louis’ welfare, and Harry’s passive look to the camera suggests this is all a regular occurrence. The next shot, the four relax over some beers from the adjacent brewery – a nice little small business product placement – in the metal chairs and table set up in front of the entrance to the building. These are slightly more contrived, but only to Harry, because he was there, remembers being told where to sit and how to look to convey the most organic non-organic picture possible. They’re so experienced with this by now that it comes second nature.

The best photos are taken inside. The absolute assault of colour and light translates magnificently on film. The group shots show the four of them standing at staggered intervals in front of the camera, surrounded by neon signs of all types, colours and shapes. Bouncing light colours every corner of the photographs, and an enormous disco ball balances above their heads. In another, Louis is on Niall’s shoulders, arms raised and face mischievous, while Liam raises his eyebrows and Harry casually points, eyes wide, to the nearby neon _PEEPSHOW!_ sign.

Niall scrolls to the next photo. In it, Harry and Louis sit opposite one another in a private shot, the rainbow neon sign tactfully aimed in the background alongside a pink heart with cursive love in the centre. Harry’s heart does a summersault at the sight, but before he can really take it in, Niall has tapped to the next.

“Go back,” Louis says, frowning at Niall’s phone screen. “Hey, you’re scrolling too fast.”

“Get your own phone!” Niall says, defensive when Louis tries to click back. 

“Neil, for fuck’s sake –”

“Children,” Harry warns, and Liam laughs.

Louis purses his lips pulls out his phone and opens the group email full of photos.

“This one’s actually quite good,” Liam says, turning his phone screen to show off a portrait of himself. In the photo, Liam broods against the backdrop of a neon sign of a strike of bright white lightning.

Harry’s phone buzzes with a notification, and he opens it to find that Louis just posted a zoomed-in screenshot of Niall from one of the group shots on his Instagram story. It isn’t the most flattering photo, one of the outtakes by the looks of it. He’s tagged Niall and captioned it: _looking good lad !_

“You’re a dead man,” Niall says, clearly also looking at the post.

“Love you too, lad,” Louis sniggers behind his hand, and Harry can’t help but grin.

In the end, the bandmates sort through all the photos, choosing their personal favourites to promote on their platforms. They laugh at one another’s cheesy smiles or candid expressions, teasing Liam for his constant Zoolander impressions. Niall changes his profile picture to a photo of him leaning against the countertop with a coffee, looking off, colourful neon reflected in his eyes. A massive green four-leaf clover neon sign halos him from behind. Liam posts a group shot and writes a long, heartfelt caption about the upcoming tour. Louis posts the photo of he and Harry with the rainbow neon in the background, and Harry tries not to blush as he watches him write the simple, yet sweet caption: _lover boyyyyy_

Harry posts one of the outtakes, a photo of Louis and him, eyeing one another. They’re sat on the shiny linoleum floor beside a massive sign that is lent up against a number of others with the words: _live show, couples welcome, 2 pounds_ in bright eye-catching neon. Besides the words appears to be a neon male figure taking a busty woman from behind. The crude gesture wildly contrasts with what you would expect is an intimate moment between them. Harry captions the post, dry humour: _a bargain._

It's surreal to be here with the boys after all these years. Less than six months ago, Harry was sure it would never happen. He remembers that first tentative conversation with Niall, the way he'd averted his eyes and said, _some of us have been talking…_ He was nervous to hear what Harry thought. Afraid that he would reject the notion on principle alone. How could Harry be expected to tour with his ex? How could he be expected to return to One Direction as if nothing had changed when everything had? Niall had been right to worry.

Harry’s ashamed now of the way he responded – an unwavering solid _no_. He’d swallowed the lump in his throat and managed, _we've talked about this, Niall. I can't_ . And then, when Niall’s face had fallen, _at least not now. It’s still too soon._ He was sure he'd say it's still too soon for as long as his ex-bandmates would let him. As far as Harry was concerned, no amount of time could prepare him for working with Louis again. How could it, when the way things were in the band had always been influenced by their relationship? It took some coaxing for Harry to begin considering it.

In the end, it was the knowledge that Louis was already in agreement, and acceptance that running away from One Direction and everything he held dear about that time in his life was futile. Not to mention selfish, which Niall so kindly pointed out.

“I think it’s safe now for me to say,” Niall begins, beaming down at the picture of the tour dates – 30 countries, 40 days, starting mid-June next year. “But we basically parent trapped you two into this.”

Liam nearly spits out his drink. “I thought we were going to the grave with that, Niall.”

“Yeah, well,” Niall shrugs, “I changed my mind, Liam.”

For one horrifying moment, Harry thinks Niall is admitting to leaking the video off his iCloud. Until Louis says, clearly catching on in a way that Harry hasn’t, “You fucking didn’t.”

Harry frowns, looking between the three of them. Niall looks proud of himself, Liam looks guilty, and Louis’ eyes are wide and mouth agape.

“Harry wasn’t on board before me, was he?” Louis asks, and Niall shrugs.

“Hang on,” Harry interrupts, “You were the one that agreed to the reunion first.”

“Yeah,” Louis scoffs, “I’m sure that’s what Niall said,” and then, smirking, “I’m actually impressed, Nialler. You manipulative bastard.”

“We did what we had to do,” Niall says, taking a huge swig of his beer. “Both of you were being fucking stubborn. We couldn’t get you to agree to even talk to one another, let alone tour together. It was Liam’s idea actually.”

Harry and Louis’ heads whip to Liam, who shrinks under their accusatory gazes.

“I really like _Parent Trap_ , alright, stop looking at me like that,” Liam says, defensively puppy-like. Louis makes a noise of understanding and mutters something under his breath about Lindsey Lohan being the face of a generation. “You two were too bloody proud, so we figured, why not use that for good? So Niall told Harry that Louis already said yes to the reunion, and _I_ told Louis that _Harry_ had… and well, you get the idea. It worked didn’t it?”

There’s a stagnant moment, Louis having made clear his admiration. Liam, Niall and Louis all look to Harry, who has been completely silent.

“Sort of genius, really, Liam,” Harry finally says, and the rest of them visibly relax. Liam lets out a relieved laugh and that sets the rest of them off, too. 

Once every man has drained their glasses, and all that is left is a foamy residue at the bottom of pints, Harry stands up and announces the next round is on him.

He’s waiting up at the bar, leaning against it casually, when Niall appears from behind. He smiles in recognition, then turns his attention to the drinks as they’re being filled.

“I, er, just wanted to say,” Niall begins, tapping his fingers on the table. Harry turns, sees the nervous way Niall bites his lower lip. “About what I said at the afterparty? I was outta line. You’re not the bad guy here, neither of you are. It’s not my business.”

Harry, taken aback, nods. “What changed your mind?” he asks, muttering a ‘cheers’ under his breath when the bartender serves him the four Guinnesses. He begins slowly putting them on the tray, making sure not to spill the amber liquid anywhere.

Niall looks over his shoulder and Harry follows his gaze. Liam and Louis are laughing about something, banging their fists on the table and tilting their heads back. Even from here, Harry can see the crinkles at the sides of Louis’ eyes, and he finds himself smiling at the sight.

“That,” Niall says, wagging his finger at Harry. “That’s what changed my mind.”

Harry frowns, suddenly self-conscious. Is he really that obvious? Niall laughs, shaking his head and grabbing the tray right out from under him.

“Let’s just say,” he begins. “You might be able to lie to Liam, but I wasn’t born yesterday.” Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Niall raises a hand to stop him. “I know you two’ve got a good reason to keep it from us. You’re sorting it out, I get it. All I’m saying is, you both seem happy, and that’s all I care about.”

* * *

Harry falls in love with Hackney. At first, he thinks it’s due to its undeniable charm. The myriad of vintage stores and backstreet cafes where eggs benedict and turmeric lattes reign supreme. The mix of old and new create an eclectic experience – traditional London cosies up to the vibrant street art and trendy markets where anyone can get a deal. But it soon becomes clear to Harry that what draws him to this part of East London is all in the company he keeps. Louis is by his side, trying testers of chutneys or jams at one of the food markets on Broadway, laughing at a joke Harry makes along one of the backstreets. They hold hands in the solitude of the canals, watch a cat brave the roof of one of the houseboats to watch fish ripple under the murky surface.

They return, often, to Columbia Road, each time with fresh flowers and ruddy cheeks from the cold. London Fields is bare of its usual poppies, a naked tall grassland. Louis assures Harry that come spring, it’ll be just like the entrance to Emerald City in _The Wizard of Oz._ Until then, frost clings to the grass. But despite the bite of winter, Clifford and Bruce are always eager to bound through the chilly grasslands.

Early December falls into mid-December and Harry begins to find a sense of routine in their time together. Harry stays the night, stays for days on end. He makes breakfast in the mornings, Louis makes him afternoon tea they both know he won’t drink, and the dogs are so fond of Harry that Louis has become somewhat jealous. They watch films at the local picture house and sleep in on weekends. Harry shares his favourite books and Louis develops a soft frown as he reads them in the mornings. Harry leaves only to water his plants at home or to go to the studio. He volunteers to take the dogs on walks when Louis needs no distractions from writing.

The papers still trail them occasionally, and with the news of One Direction’s comeback, more fans happen to be roaming the area when they’re out. Apart from the occasional interruption, which they don’t mind, Harry and Louis are left alone.

The domestic bliss carries itself into late December and Harry begins to fret over Louis’ upcoming 28th birthday. He doesn’t realise how worried he is until one evening when they’re lounging on Louis’ couch, the dogs snoring between them.

Louis stretches, yawns, then says, “I can’t wait for you to see the girls this Christmas. They’ve missed you so much.” He says it with such certainty that Harry’s heart seizes.

“What?” he asks because he heard him, but surely he’s misunderstood.

“This Christmas,” Louis repeats. “Well, I guess my birthday if you’re being technical about it, but –”

“Lou?”

“Shit,” Louis curses. “I forgot to ask you, have I?”

Harry gulps and nods. Louis’ boisterousness vanishes in an instant.

“I’m such a mess. I told mum you’d be there and everything.”

Harry wishes Louis would just stop being so vague for the sake of his fragile heart.

“Well, s’pose you’ve already made plans by now,” Louis huffs. “I’m going home for the holidays, and I was sort of hoping you’d join me. Obviously. Well, not, you know – I know you’d want to be with your own family on Christmas day and all that, but for my birthday mum had something small planned. Honestly, it’s nothing. I understand if you can’t come.”

“Louis…” Harry begins, “I’d love to. Of course, I’ll come.”

“Oh.” Louis blinks. “You will, will ya?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh. Excellent. Great then.”

* * *

The Yorkshire countryside whips by the car window in a flurry of dull greys and gloomy blues. The further out of the city they get, the more the scenery changes. In the morning, the streets had been lined with commuters walking against the wind on their way to work. There had been houses upon houses – terraces mostly - stacked next to one another through winding roads. Now, almost two hours into their journey and approaching lunchtime, the houses are further and further apart. Their view is mostly of leafless shrubbery and muddy terrain.

They drive through rain and fog, and eventually, quintessential British snow.

“It’s just bloody _snow,_ Cliff,” Louis says, darting glances to the backseat where the massive black labradoodle barks aimlessly out the window. “Thinks he’s defending our honour or summit,” he mutters, shaking his head.

In the front seat, on Harry’s lap, a mop of blonde curls – Bruce – is asleep. It’s probably the quietest Harry has ever seen the dog. Of all the hours and days spent at Louis’ place in Hackney, he has become just as attached to the dogs as he has to Louis’. It seems the feeling is mutual. 

“What a suck-up,” Louis mutters, though he smiles at the sight.

Harry decides he has to document the moment and sends Liam and Niall a photo of him grinning with the snoozing pup. The group chat has gone through a steady rotation of titles – last week it was ‘NSYNC’ after the four of them laughed themselves silly over Stevie Nicks mistaking them for the 90s boyband in an interview. Now, it’s simply ‘One Direction Fan Club’, for no rhyme or reason. Above Harry’s selfie, Niall has sent a link to an article in the Metro with the headline _Liam Payne ‘threatened by One Direction bandmate’ after letting slip over reunion plans: ‘I’ve already said too much.’_ Niall’s own commentary beneath the link reads: _ahahahhaa some of the shit I read on here._ Harry makes the executive decision not to show this to Louis while he’s driving. 

Harry enjoys being in the passenger seat, mostly to watch the small line between Louis’ brows form in concentration. He takes control of the music, putting on some classic rock, from Elvis Presley to Fleetwood Mac. Louis endures it – bless him – until an old Beach Boys song makes him finally crack. 

“Any Green Day in that lot?” he asks, peaking a glance across to the phone in Harry’s hand.

“Nope,” Harry says with a smile.

Louis deflates. “No Oasis?” he tries, sceptical.

Harry laughs, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“Tell me, how is it we were in a band together?” Louis teases.

Harry barks a laugh at that, head tilted back, and Bruce raises his head, opens his eyes curiously at the commotion.

“Sorry Bruce. Just daft ol’ me,” Harry assures him, with an appreciative scratch under the chin.

“He’s a dog, Haz. Not a cat,” Louis remarks and Harry pokes his tongue out in defence.

“Don’t generalise. He likes it.”

Louis rolls his eyes, returning his attention to the road, slick with ice.

“You’re just jealous,” Harry concludes, then putting on a baby voice and addressing the dog, “ _Daddy’s just a bit jealous, isn’t he, Brucey?”_

Louis blanches, eyes wide. “You didn’t just call me ‘Daddy’.”

“What you gonna do about it?” Harry retorts, teasing, one eyebrow cocked in question. Louis turns pink, clears his throat awkwardly, and focuses far too intensely on driving.

“Put on some proper music, will you?”

Harry pouts but looks through his music anyway. Then, with a smile, clicks one.

It takes a second for Louis to register the _Summer Nights_ Grease-like beat, and then he laughs.

“Not what I meant,” Louis says through reluctant laughter as _What Makes You Beautiful_ fills the car.

“No?” Harry feigns ignorance, and then when Louis looks his way, he bites down on his lower lip and does the cringiest upper-body dance move. He’s trying to replicate whatever shoulder jut he thought was so cool during their X Factor days, and it works, because Louis laughs more freely than ever before. 

“ _Harry_ -”

“SORRY, LOU! WHAT WAS THAT?” Harry shouts, having deliberately cranked the song up by several volumes. “CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE ME CRASH THE BLOODY CAR!” Louis shouts back. And as much as teasing Louis is hilarious, Harry has to admit, it isn’t totally safe. So he turns it down.

“You asked for real music,” He shrugs, suppressing the smug grin with not much success.

“As much as I love our music, I was hoping for something I haven’t heard maybe a million times.”

“Fair enough,” Harry allows, and scrolls through his playlists for something else. Both of them have always loved the One Direction discography completely and without shame. Even the old stuff. Even the _really bad_ old stuff. But when you’ve sung a song every night for five years non-stop, you can do with a bit of a break. 

The moment the synthetic 70s beat starts, Louis slaps his hand against the wheel enthusiastically.

“That’s more fucking like it!” he hollers, grinning ear to ear as ABBA’s _Mamma Mia_ plays through the car.

Harry beams, nodding his head along, disrupting Bruce’s slumber. They start of tamely, muttering the first lines under their breaths. By the time the second verse hits, the pair of them are singing dramatically, crooning that they can _hear a bell ring, one more look, and I forget everything._ Harry throws his fists around theatrically while Louis bops his head, determined.

“ _YESSSSS!_ ” Harry shouts the chorus, startling both dogs, who bark in unison. “ _I’VE BEEN BROKEN HEARTED! BLUE SINCE THE DAY WE PARTED…”_ He does an ABBA-esque shake of his head to the guitar beat, while Louis cackles. “ _WHY, WHY, DID I EVER LET YOU GO?”_

“ _MAMMA MIA!”_ Louis takes over, eyes wide. “ _NOW I REALLY KNOW!”_ He looks briefly to Harry, winking, before facing the road again. “ _MY, MY, I COULD NEVER LET YOU GO!_ ”

They sing all of ABBA’s greatest hits; _Dancing Queen_ (which Harry takes so seriously that Bruce ends up abandoning his lap for the backseat), _Super Trouper_ (which involves a lot of pointing to an imaginary crowd) and _Waterloo_ (which they duet perfectly, so much so that Harry wonders about recording them and leaking it for the fans, just for the hell of it). By the time a slower number comes on, _Chiquita_ , they’re exhausted.

“Oh no, I can’t hear this one,” Harry announces seriously, quickly going through his playlist.

“Why not! This is a banger!”

“It makes me cry every time, Louis! You know that!”

Louis snorted. “Drama queen. At least just turn it down, _I_ wanna listen to it.”

“Fine.” Harry huffs, deliberately being difficult. Louis rolls his eyes, smirking. Harry reluctantly turns down the song to a low murmur. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Louis remarks, eyes still ahead and thumb tapping gently against the wheel. “On Halloween.”

Harry frowns. “I said a lot of things on Halloween. Most of it not worth thinking about at all.”

Louis laughs wryly. “No, dickhead. If you’d let me finish.” He sneaks a glance across at him. “What you said on the balcony. About making music out of the band and stuff, know what I mean?” When Harry makes a noise of realisation, he continues, “Me album is done, is what I mean. It’s finished. And… for ages I was just so caught up in, like, what would get me in the charts and that. Like, literally years, I kept telling myself I had to be successful and I had to be popular to prove… well, I don’t even know what.” He shrugs. “But I bloody hated the stuff I was making, if m’honest. Not all of it, mind, but it wasn’t the stuff I really loved, you know what I mean?” He pauses, chewing on his lower lip. “And I don’t think I proper realised that ‘til you said… you said I’d miss the point of it if I got too caught up in making it perfect. It changed my whole mindset. I ended up scrapping half the album after that chat we had.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “You what?”

Louis laughs. “I know! It sounds fucking mad, what with the release date already out and everything. But like, I spent the last four years just fucking writing stuff that I thought other people’d like, stuff I thought would make… I dunno, top 100 or whatever. And then you said something and… suddenly it didn’t matter anymore. Like, I went back to the studio and I just said, ‘Sorry, boys, these’ve gotta go’,” he laughs. “Thought I nearly killed Julian by the look on his face.” He pauses, and Harry pictures the moment with a clarity that nearly catches him in a daze. “Four years of beatin’ myself up about it… and then I write the whole album in a month.” 

“I… wow, Louis.” Harry is lost for words. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking – that Louis had writer’s block for years, and that the moment Harry re-entered his life, he was able to write again. He wants so desperately for there to be a connection, but it would be selfish to allow himself to entertain the thought. He doesn’t say that he gets it, even though he does. He gets it because the unadulterated joy he feels writing songs now, songs about Louis, is a feeling he wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. The freedom of letting go, of not caring what the world thinks, he has Louis in part to thank for that. He always has.

But of course, he won’t say anything about that. Just because something Harry flippantly said, drunk on fruity cocktails, redefined Louis’ entire outlook on the deeply personal experience of making music, doesn’t mean anything.

For a moment, they look at one another and Harry thinks it’s there, in Louis’ eyes. That yes – yes, _it does_ mean something. It means everything.

And what comes out of Harry’s mouth instead is, “I cannot believe something I said while drunk actually made a difference.”

Louis laughs, breaking the spell of the moment. He shakes his head and looks back at the road. 

“But seriously,” Harry adds, voice low. The emotion is evident in his voice, and although he tries to swallow it back down, it stays there. The swell of pride is undeniable. “M’proud of you. Making an album you love, writing music that makes you happy… I mean, nobody can tell you you’re unsuccessful for that.” 

Louis smiles, nodding to himself. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

When Louis’ stomach growls impatiently over the music – Green Day’s ‘Jesus of Suburbia’ – which Louis forced Harry to download because it’s _seven minutes long, Harry, it’s a fucking masterpiece_ he finally turns into a McDonald’s drive-thru.

“What’d’ya want?” he asks, winding down the window and letting a wave of icy air fill the car quickly.

“Uh…” Harry contemplates, fiddling with one of his rings. “Just a drink. One of those McFreeze things.”

“Mc- _what_? Harry, when was the last time you had Maccies?” Louis asks poorly concealed judgement in his voice.

Harry thinks on it, looking at the roof of the car. “Erm… Don’t remember. With you, most likely.”

“Right.” Louis shakes his head. “I’m ordering you a Big Mac.” He turns to order into the speaker, then rolls the car forward through to the cash register window. He turns to Harry, whose face is the picture of concern. “Don’t say you’re gonna get some sort of avocado nonsense for lunch. Cos I’m tellin’ ya, where we’re going there isn’t anything like that. We don’t even have sushi in Donny.”

Harry is too smitten to complain. 

Not much later, Harry and Louis arrive at the Tomlinson-Deakin family home mid-afternoon to a dusting of snow and white all around. The dogs are quick out of the car, bounding across the snow-covered lawn and scratching at the front door. 

Harry’s gut churns nervously. Louis convinced him that it was simpler to go along with the relationship farce while at home. It would complicate things, especially for his sisters, to know the truth. And, as they had promised no more mind games, Louis was adamant he wanted Harry there properly. Not as some prop in the stage play that was their life. The remark confused Harry because more often than not, it felt as if they were a real couple already. But that was delicate, far too sensitive to talk about. As much as they played house, at the back of Harry’s mind was always the churning, daunting reality that this would have to end at some point. He didn’t want that. Still, Harry wanted to protest - to tell him it seemed far crueller to re-enter their lives only to leave again. But when he’d said as much, Louis got this strange look on his face, and the rest of the day was off-kilter. Eventually, because Harry couldn’t stand the silence, he promised to go along with the charade. With soft kisses and soothing hands, Harry said _Alright. Forget what I said. We’ll do it your way._

Harry braces himself, not sure what reaction he will get from Louis’ family after years of estrangement. At his feet, Bruce’s wagging tail smacks against his calf, while Cliff leaps up and down against the door. 

Harry’s fears are short-lived, Lottie opening the door and flinging herself into his arms between squeals of _missed you!_ and _how long has it been?!_ He relaxes into the embrace, ignoring Louis’ complaints that _oi, your own brother over here_. Bruce and Clifford rush though the gaps in Lottie’s legs, bypassing her entirely in favour of the warm living room. 

“You've grown so much,” Harry says, getting a proper look at Louis’ younger sister. She was barely legal age last time he saw her. Now she's a full-grown woman. She looks so much like Jay but her hair is a shocking bubblegum pink, and her skin tanned a colour that doesn't quite align with Yorkshire winter.

Once over the threshold and into the warmth of the family home, a flood of memories return to Harry. Of Christmases past, birthdays and anniversaries. He has been so good at compartmentalising that part of his life that he totally forgot how deeply he missed it. 

A similar greeting comes from Fiz and the twins, albeit a little more reserved. Daisy and Phoebe were so young when Harry and Louis broke up, it’ll take time for the familiarity to return.

Harry and Louis make their way into the living room, the hearth decorated splendidly with a Christmas wreath and sparkling tinsel. The fireplace is crackling and presents sit shiny and waiting under the pine tree. Bruce and Clifford have already made themselves at home, receiving indulgent belly rubs by the fireplace from Daisy and Phoebe. Before Harry has a chance to catch their eyes, two small humans rush out from the kitchen, colliding with Louis’ legs. Harry has a second of confusion before realising these kids are Doris and Ernest. He gapes as Louis bends down to give them both a tight squeeze.

He sees Harry’s expression and sighs. “I know. I see them all the time and I'm still not over it. Stop growing, will you?” He gives the youngest twins a mischievous grin and they giggle, still clinging to his side. The children’s faces fall slightly at the sight of Harry – a stranger – smiling features changing to that of shy insecurity. Louis stands back up and both kids shroud themselves behind him.

“No, hey, you two know Harry,” Louis says, voice impossibly sweet and gentle. He leans down slightly and asks in a near whisper, “You remember him, eh?”

The awkward silence stretches out before Harry. The blank looks on Doris and Ernest’s features hurt him deeper than he ever expected. What was he thinking coming here? He doesn't belong. He never will.

Harry swallows hard and plasters on a fake smile. “M’Harry. I used to be a friend of Louis’.” He gives a sheepish smile, Louis eying him. “Still am, I think.”

The children’s eyes soften and they come out (with some subtle coaxing from Louis) from behind his back.

“You’ve both grown so much,” Harry says. “You’re proper grownups.”

Lottie folds her arms, smiling down at her youngest siblings. “Tell me about it,” she says.

Then, as if Harry needs to be tested any further, Jay comes out of the kitchen. She looks charmingly dishevelled, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face lights up at the sight of her son and she opens her arms for him to fall into them.

“Birthday boy…” she sighs, patting Louis’ back. They stay that way for a while, Jay rubbing circles into his back with a tenderness only mothers can achieve.

Mother and son finally part and Louis turns to give Harry a glance that looks about as nervous as Harry feels. Harry gulps in and pats his legs, unsure of what to do with himself. Jay is staunchly still for a moment, regarding Harry with a stony expression. Harry can feel her contempt - or at the very least, her weariness - radiating off her in waves. The audacity of breaking her son’s heart only to show up on her doorstep years later? He understands that she may resent him. _Hate_ him, even.

Ten painful, excruciating seconds elapse, and miraculously, Jay’s face softens to a tender smile.

“Harry,” she says, sighing with the kind of relief.

“Jay,” he says, his body relaxing some.

“C’mere, love.” She ushers him over. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Harry steps forward, accepting her gesture, feeling the warmth of her maternal love in the gentle pressure of her hug. He’s a head taller than her, but her hugs are to die for.

“I always knew it wasn't the end for you two,” she tells him, muffled into his chest. Harry closes his eyes and forces himself not to be overcome with emotion. He missed her. He missed them all, so very much.

The room at large has lost its tension, the girls going back to whatever they were doing before they arrived, and Lottie and Fiz shooting Harry a knowing glance before returning to the kitchen. Once Harry has a chance to turn to Louis, the other man’s face is unreadable. He clears his throat, flicks his fringe, and turns away from Harry’s imploring eyes.

After that, the day goes smoothly. Harry fits right back in, almost as if no time has passed. Dinner is a chatty, raucous affair, just like Harry remembers. Dan asks about his upcoming album and life after One Direction, he and Lottie talk of holidays in Spain and their favourite restaurants in Ibiza. Jay jokingly reprimands Harry when he sneaks some of the birthday dinner to the dogs under the table, and Fiz laughs at Harry's jokes just like she used to. Sometimes someone will slip up and Harry is reminded that he's a guest here, nothing more. These people used to be his family and he wonders if they ever will be again. But even so, by evening’s end, his cheeks are aching from smiling so much.

Later, in the spare bed, with Louis’ lips working their way down Harry’s naked torso, his mind is elsewhere.

“Today was lovely,” Harry says into the dark, and after swallowing heavily he adds, “I've missed them.”

Louis looks up, hovering above Harry, the night’s shadows contouring his angelic face.

“They’ve missed you, too,” he promises.

Before Harry can say much more on the subject, the warm wetness of the inside of Louis’ mouth is wrapping around his dick, sending waves of pleasure throughout his body. He arches off the bed, grips Louis’ hair tightly at the base, and allows himself to be consumed by the sensation.

* * *

The morning of Louis’ birthday, Harry wakes him with warm hands and hot breath. Louis – who has never been a morning person – fully awakens the second Harry’s hands are on him. The pair fumble quietly under the covers, Harry kissing Louis’ earlobe and along the side of his neck. He has to stifle Louis’ moans with a rough palm on the mouth, determined not to rush this or be interrupted.

“Happy birthday,” he says, breathy, as he strokes Louis shamelessly. He’s sure Louis has forgotten his own name, let alone the fact that it's his birthday.

Afterwards, Louis’ chest still rising and falling deeply, Harry sits up abruptly, startling him.

“Present time,” he announces.

“What’re-”

“No complaints,” Harry interrupts, shooting Louis a warning look. He scrambles out of the bed, rifling through his bag and pulling out a small wrapped gift.

“How do you know I was going to complain?” Louis frowns. Harry gets back into bed, settling in beside Louis under the covers.

“You got that look on your face,” Harry says, pressing his forefinger into the crease between Louis’ brows. The lines immediately smooth and Louis smiles. Harry puts the gift down on Louis’ lap and Louis responds by sitting up straighter, picking it up in his hands and shaking it.

“Hold on, don’t get your hopes up,” Harry interjects, making Louis freeze. “It could be a crap gift.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You? Give a crap gift? Unlikely.” He immediately starts ripping open the wrapping paper.

“It’s probably quite shitty, really,” Harry says, quieter now, suddenly self-conscious.

“You shouldn’t have got me anything in the first place,” Louis counters, cocking his brow in a disciplinary way. The wrapping paper opens to reveal a book sitting on top of a folded black t-shirt.

Louis holds up the book. “ _I’ll Be Gone In The Dark,_ ” he reads out the orange title font, against the backdrop of a sepia photograph of a suburban home. It’s creepy and intriguing and Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t buy it in the hopes that he might be able to borrow it from Louis after he finishes reading it. “Sick…”

“You said you were trying to get into reading for fun and I know you like true crime so…” Harry explains the gift. “The lady at the bookshop recommended it.”

Louis turns the book over and scans the blurb. “This is really cool, H. Thanks.”

Harry smiles, nodding. He bites his lip, waiting nervously for Louis to turn his attention to the second gift at the bottom of the wrapping paper. When he does, Harry holds his breath in anticipation.

Louis lifts up the shirt and it unfolds to reveal a vintage graphic tee. The black dominates, with a large, worn inverted pink triangle in the middle. Above it, in all capitals serif font, it says _SUPPORT GAY RIGHTS_ in white. Louis stills at the image, holding the t-shirt up silently.

Harry clears his throat. “It’s an original 1970s. Kind of rare, actually.” He watches Louis’ expression, wringing his hands with every passing second that Louis doesn’t react properly. “I wanted to like, do something, back when you first officially came out. But we weren’t really… friends then. So, I figured now I could…” Harry trails off, realising he’s rambling, gesturing with his hands like a desperate man. He feels increasingly agitated, embarrassed even. “It was stupid, I shouldn’t’ve…”

“No, no,” Louis interjects quickly, whipping his head to look at Harry earnestly. “I _love_ it _._ Proper perfect, actually. Thank you.” He puts the shirt flat out on his lap, tracing a fingertip over the block-letters. Then, without another word, he tugs off his pyjama top (which is actually just an old baggy t-shirt of Harry’s) and replaces it with the new one. He looks down at the graphic on his chest and grins.

Harry watches on, chewing his lip. “There’s something else, too.”

“Go on,” Louis says, looking up and at Harry expectantly.

“Okay well,” Harry says, suddenly shy. He chews at the inside of his cheek. “It’s not really… a good gift, or anything.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Stop rambling, Harold. You know I can’t stand suspense.”

“Right. Yes, okay.” Harry nods curtly. He gets up out of bed, “You’ve still got that guitar, yeah?”

“… Yeah, it’s in the closet. Why?”

Harry opens the closet, and sure enough, Louis’ childhood guitar sits there collecting dust. “Back when we were in L.A., I wrote a song – I told you it was going to be the first on the album.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, not catching on, not even when Harry returns to the bed with the guitar and begins fiddling with the chords.

“You asked if you could hear it,” Harry says, eyes trained on the dials, adjusting and tuning it correctly. Finally, he looks up to see Louis watching on with a soft expression. “Well, uhm, you can.”

“Oh,” Louis says, somewhat dumbfounded. And then, “ _Oh!_ ”

“If serenading you is like,” Harry lets out a self-deprecating snort, repositioning himself to sit legs crisscrossed atop the blankets. “ _Really_ cheesy, you can stop me now,”

Louis chuckles but shakes his head. “No,” he says quietly. “Sing to me.”

And so Harry does. He strums the guitar, setting a much slower tempo than intended for the song. The version on the album has an upbeat nostalgia about it, but this version slowed like a lullaby, is more of a ballad.

“ _Golden, golden, golden as I open my eyes_ ,” Harry sings low and deep in sync with a simple guitar melody. He spends most of the song looking down at his guitar, afraid to look at Louis looking at him. But when Louis’ hand finds Harry’s knee, gently grasping it, Harry finds the courage to meet his eyes. He’s glad that he does, because it fills him with newfound energy, and when he sings _loving you’s the antidote_ he watches pure adoration flood over Louis’ face.

The rest of the song he sings directly to Louis, smiling a little even.

> _You’re so golden,_
> 
> _You're so golden,_
> 
> _You're so golden,_
> 
> _I'm out of my head_
> 
> _And I know that you're scared_
> 
> _Because hearts get broken_

Harry concludes the song with some abstract ‘ _da, da, da’_ s and a final few extra strums of the guitar. When it’s over, he gives Louis a sheepish smile.

“That…”

“You can be honest,” Harry interjects stupidly.

“Will you let me speak, knobhead?” Louis quips, making the pair of them crack up laughing. “It was fucking great, Harry. This album is going to be…” He makes a sound of disbelief. “A proper masterpiece. Thank you for sharing it with me. I’m so proud of you.” He smiles sincerely, so genuine that Harry almost wants to shy away from it. “Now how’s that for cheesy?”

Harry decides cheesiness is underrated.

* * *

The Doncaster Dome is an impressive piece of architecture that looks out of place in the brick housing within the understated suburbia.

“I can’t believe I’ve never taken you to the Donny Dome,” Louis says, shaking his head. “Are you really sure you’ve never been here?”

Harry smiles at Louis’ enthusiasm. “I’m sure. I’d have remembered a two-story ice skating rink.”

“Too right, you would. The only one in Europe, mind. Doncaster’s claim to fame.”

“You mentioned that, yes.”

Off in the distance, by the entrance of the Dome, Harry spots a group of men standing around, waiting. Louis recognises them in the same instant, face lighting up.

“OI, OI!” he shouts, getting their attention. The four lads turn to see their friend, waving enthusiastically and yelling back.

Stan is the first to greet them, hugging Louis with a fierceness that makes Harry miss his own childhood best friend. His dark hair frames his face, cheeks round and skin pale and ruddy from the cold. He looks the same as when they met, ten years prior. Babyface.

“Lewis! Fuck me, it’s been too long,” he says, patting Louis’ back roughly. “What’ve you been up to!”

“Owt or nawt, mate,” Louis says, Yorkshire accent stronger than ever. Harry beams. Every time Louis returns to Yorkshire, his accent gets thicker and he resorts back to old slang. Harry knows what most of the terms mean by now. 

“Yeah, yeah, fuck that,” Stan says with a shake of his head. “Bet this bloke’ll tell me different.” He raises his eyebrows in gesture to Harry, who still stands slightly reserved. He puffs out a breath and tugs Harry into a rough, manly hug. He forgot how laddy Louis’ friends are. “Missed your stupidly good looking face, Styles.” And then, once he’s withdrawn, with a firm grip on Harry’s shoulder, “Don’t be a stranger.”

Once they’ve approached the rest of the group, Harry lingers behind slightly, watching on. Louis slaps Oli’s hand, pulling the ginger in for a rough side hug. They exchange words in a muttering against shoulders. Calvin pretends to try and punch Louis in the stomach and Louis dodges it, the two of them laughing. Louis gets on his tiptoes to ruffle up Luke’s perfectly gelled hair – making the taller man curse and jerk away.

“Let you get away with that just ‘cause it’s your birthday, lad,” Luke grumbles, immediately trying to fix his quiff. Harry makes note of the smouldering features and the smarter looking clothes compared to the rest of Louis’ friends. Luke has grown into his looks since Harry last saw him. He looks like he’s just walked off the cover of GQ. Suddenly, Harry understands why everyone calls him ‘Hot Luke’ on social media. “But next time and you’re a dead man walking.”

Past the pleasantries, to which Harry is sure he’s had enough macho handshakes and side hugs to fulfil a lifetime, the group of six make their way inside. At first glance, Harry thinks the rink looks like any other indoor ice skating venue. It’s a large slab of ice in the centre of a big room, exposed industrial ceiling, with an enormous rigged lighting system that sends down blues and pinks.

He frowns, approaching the barrier that separates him from those skating. Louis stands beside him, looking across at the expansive white with eagerness.

“How is it…?” Harry begins, squinting.

“Watch that guy,” Louis says, gesturing to a man skating, knowing exactly what Harry’s confused about. Harry follows his finger, watching the man gliding quickly across the ice. He goes from one side of the rink to the other. He approaches what appears to be the railing on the other side. Harry thinks he’s going to stop at the furthest end, but instead, he verges left, where a narrow pathway of ice wraps around the back. Harry realises there’s another pathway on the other side too – and they link up together to form a smaller, slightly elevated ice rink at the back.

“Holy shit,” he says, watching the man as he skates uphill, looping around the back, and then sliding back down with the momentum of the decline into the main ice skating rink.

“Sick, isn’t it?” Louis beams.

Louis gets his skates on first and stands on the squishy padded floor waiting for Harry. 

“I’m your height now,” Louis notes, folding his arms and looking across at Harry while he waits for the clerk to return with a pair of skates in his size. Harry turns to face him, looking Louis up and down. Indeed, the blades add an extra two inches at best, but the rest is made up in Louis’ craned neck and suddenly perfect posture. Still, Harry has a good few centimetres on him.

“Don’t get used to it,” Harry grumbles, shooting Louis a dark look. The clerk passes Harry a pair of skates, he thanks him, and turns to sit himself down and put them on. “N’you’re cheatin’, anyway,” he remarks over his shoulder. 

“Am not,” Louis follows in awkward large steps. He rotates slowly on the spot before collapsing onto the bench next to Harry gracelessly.

Harry chuckles to himself, head bent as he tightens the laces on the skates.

“I like being shorter than you anyway,” Louis says after a bit, looking off distractedly as if he didn’t say anything at all. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Still smiling, Harry finishes putting on his skates.

When Louis gets in the rink, he pushes off the edge and skates into the centre. He’s followed by Luke, Oli and Stan, all of which seem fairly comfortable on the ice. Harry has flashes of them as kids, coming here on weekends, causing mayhem among the locals. Calvin, however, nearly falls face-first the moment the blades of his skates hit the ice. He scrambles with the railing, clutching for dear life.

Harry watches him, the two of them alone now, frowning at Calvin’s total lack of hand-eye coordination. Then, when it seems the man has found a semblance of balance, Harry finally gets on the ice himself.

He feels totally out of control for a split second, slowly gliding across the ice. He bends at the knees, gently pushing off the ice with the toe pick. Louis turns around, a few meters ahead, smiling at him. He stays there, while his friends glide off into different directions, watching Harry quietly struggle.

Harry’s arms are outstretched, trying to keep himself balanced. He shakes, face contorted in concentration before he manages to stand comfortably. Legs spread wide, he looks up at Louis and gives him a thumbs up.

Louis skates over and presses a short, sweet kiss to Harry’s mouth.

“What was that for?” Harry asks, trying to stop the inevitable blush.

Louis shrugs, infectious smile on his face, “Why not?”

A young girl in a sparkling leotard and flowy skirt whizzes past them, twirling effortlessly. Harry watches her, totally engrossed. He looks to Louis, who looks back at him with unease. He knows what he’s going to say.

“M’gonna spin,” Harry announces, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Haz, no, don’t –” Louis begins, shoulders slackening. Harry ignores his pleas, leaping across the ice. Further away, Louis’ mates watch on, sniggering to one another. “Oh, bloody hell,” he groans, turning away. “I can’t watch.”

“Think I’m getting the hang of this!” Harry says, grinning with his arms outstretched and gangly legs barely keeping him upright. He attempts to turn on the spot, arms waving gracelessly.

“Will you _just -_ ” Louis says at the same second that Harry wobbles, flails, and finally slips and falls on his arse.

Harry falls to the floor with a dull thud, wincing. After a moment, blinking dumbly, he looks up at Louis with a sheepish expression. “Might’ve spoken too soon.”

“C’mere,” Louis sighs, skating over and gesturing for Harry to take his hands. Harry grabs his arms and they struggle to get him to his feet again.

Once he’s standing, he cranes his neck to look at his rear, which has a large, dark wet spot on it.

“My bum is numb,” he says sadly, shrugging. And then, still patting down his wet behind, “These trousers are Gucci.”

“You are an absolute idiot,” Louis says, but he’s smiling. “Come on. Let’s get you to the wall, eh?”

Louis skates across the rink to the fence, where Luke and Stan are leaning against it, watching them. Harry follows closely behind, trying to be a little more cautious.

“You right, lad?” Stan asks, stifling his amusement. Luke simply chuckles.

“Peachy!” Harry says, beaming.

“Such a fucking show off, this one,” Louis says, thumb pointing at Harry. Harry responds by pretending to flick his hair over his shoulder and batting his eyelashes innocently. He used to actually be able to do that, but his hair is too short now.

“You’ve not changed a bit, have ya?” Stan says, body shaking with laughter.

Louis stays close, skating beside Harry as he uses the support of the railing to do laps around the rink. Occasionally, they’re joined by Stan and Oli, who play fight and bicker, trying to drag Louis off with them. He refuses, keeping Harry company. After they’ve made circles around Calvin three times, who hasn’t attempted to go much further than a few meters, a petrified look on his face, Harry decides he’s recovered enough from his fall to try skating to the middle again.

“Oi! You can’t leave me here!” Calvin hollers as Harry takes Louis’ hand and pushes out from the edge of the rink. “How am I meant to get up that bloody slope on my own?”

“Didn’t come here to babysit your incompetent arse!” Louis yells back, teasing.

“Fucking sods! Where’s your compassion!” Calvin grumbles, gesturing rudely. The slight change in his posture makes him slip and his eyes go wide as he scrambles to stop himself from falling.

Louis responds by flipping him the bird. “He’s mardy today, in’he?”

“When did you get so good at ice skating?” Harry asks, admiring Louis’ graceful glides across the ice.

Louis shrugs, twisting his hand in Harry’s to indicate they’re turning left. Harry follows, compliant.

“There’s not much else to do growing up in Donny, know what I mean? Mainly us lads would swim and play football, but winter was always too fucking cold, so.”

“Huh,” Harry says, nodding. Somehow, this is brand new information. Oddly, it’s comforting to know that after years, there’s still things Harry can learn about Louis.

Passing them, an elderly couple skate hand in hand. Legs moving in tandem and doting eyes for only one another, Harry’s heart swells at the sight. The man leans over and presses a quivering kiss on his wife’s cheek, and she smiles wrinkly up at him. They turn in unison, twirling around the rink in a beautiful ice dance.

Harry can’t take his eyes off them when he should be focusing on where he’s stepping and what direction Louis is taking them in. But they just look so happy, he can’t help it.

“H,” Louis interjects his thoughts and Harry finally turns to look at him.

“Mhm?”

Louis nods to the elderly couple. “You wanna give that a go?”

For a moment, Harry wonders if there’s a subtext to the question. If Louis is asking Harry if he wants to grow old with him. But the moment is gone, and instead, he nods eagerly.

“Yes, please.”

Louis turns to face Harry, interweaving both their hands like the elderly couple. They stand on the ice, balancing each other. He nods gently in time to his whispered countdown from three before pushing out his legs and beginning the dance.

“Are you leading or am I?” Louis asks, fumbling with Harry’s hands, letting out a puffy laugh.

“No idea,” Harry says, grinning too. “Here.” He grabs Louis’ hand and places it on his waist, taking charge. 

“Harry, you’re going to get us killed,” Louis says, grasping Harry tightly.

“Yee of little faith!” Harry exclaims.

“No fucking idea where you get your confidence from,” Louis mutters, looking off. “You’ve gone skating maybe twice in your life.”

“I just know I have a natural talent for it. I feel it in my bones,” Harry says, puffing out his chest. He bends further at the knee, pushing off and taking Louis with him.

“You’re so full of shit!” Louis quips back, lips curled in amusement. Louis’ grasp gets tighter and his eyes widen. He gulps, finally allowing Harry to simply guide him around.

They gently glide across the ice, almost slow dancing. Eventually, they even manage to find a rhythm - their legs bending and swaying at the same time, their feet interlocking but never bumping or tripping on one another.

After a while, Harry’s heart thudding gently in his chest, Louis looks up at him through fluttering lashes. “Thanks,” Louis tells him.

“For what? Not getting us killed?” Harry asks, laughing dopily. “Cos there’s still time –”

“No,” Louis says with a laugh, shaking his head. He looks down at their wobbling skates, the toes knocking together as they turn. “No, er, thanks for… well. Let’s just say this is one of the best birthdays I’ve had in a while.”

Harry, who follows his gaze and had been staring at their feet, looks up at the words. When he sees the soft expression on Louis’ face, he feels his body go limp. He can see Louis’ breath like smoke off his tongue in the cold of the ice rink.

“You’re welcome,” he answers quietly.

Later, when the sun has set and Louis cradles a hot tea by the fireplace, Harry says his goodbyes. It’s only an hour and forty-five-minute drive, on a good day, to get to Holmes Chapel from Doncaster. But he promised his mother he’d wake up with them Christmas morning and he doesn’t want to encroach on the Tomlinson-Deakin’s any further.

“Don’t go,” Louis says, voice small as he plays with the hem of Harry’s coat. They’re standing at the open door, the rest of the family giving them privacy to say their proper goodbyes.

“Can’t stay,” Harry says, a lopsided sad smile on his face. “It’s Christmas tomorrow.”

“It’s snowing,” Louis counters. “And it’s still my birthday for another…” he checks his phone. “Five hours.”

Harry chuckles. “You’re too spoilt.”

“That may be true, but…” Louis trails off, face going blank. “Actually I don’t have a counterargument.”

Harry laughs, and before he loses his nerve, pulls Louis in for a fierce hug. “Happy birthday,” he says, feeling Louis relax into the hold. His arms wrap around Louis’ neck, Louis’ hands around Harry’s waist. “And Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas, Harold,” Louis replies, burying his head into Harry’s shoulder.

They stay like that until Harry’s back, which is exposed to the elements, is covered in snowflakes and his hair is damp and cold. Until Lottie shouts from the living room that they’re letting all the cold air into the house. Until the very last moment, when Harry knows he really needs to go. Then they break apart, hands lingering together as Harry moves off the front step and into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference list!  
>    
> ★ Louis did threaten to egg Liam's house. [It was great](https://www.capitalfm.com/artists/one-direction/reunion-liam-payne-louis-tomlinson/).  
> ★ All of the neon signs described are at the real God's Own Junkyard and you can easily find them on google images!  
> ★ Louis posting a bad picture of Niall is inspired by [this](https://fireproofs.tumblr.com/post/624761937249583104/benwinstagram-niall-dont-deserve-this-shit).  
> ★ The article Niall links the group chat is [real](https://metro.co.uk/2020/04/24/liam-payne-threatened-one-direction-bandmate-letting-slip-reunion-plans-ive-already-said-much-12603774/).  
> ★ Louis said in an [interview](https://goldenlhigh.tumblr.com/post/626937630780702720/tmlnsn-louis-abba) that his guilty pleasure is ABBA and his ["best mate"](https://harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/626974044095479808/jimmytfallon-louis-my-best-mate-listens-to-a) loves the song Chiquitita.  
> ★ Louis feels [very passionately](https://harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/621448297347956736/cuddlerlouis-louis-passionately-talking) about ‘Jesus of Suburbia’ by Green Day.  
> ★ The avocado on toast banter is based on [this gifset](https://harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/617413023150243840) but also [this](https://youtu.be/CO-oWG8vpNc?t=284) interview  
> ★ Harry's birthday gifts to Louis are [here](https://www.amazon.com/Ill-Be-Gone-Dark-Obsessive/dp/0062319795) and [here](https://i.etsystatic.com/5821202/r/il/721129/1061655119/il_1588xN.1061655119_lryi.jpg) (the shirt is authentic from the 70s and cost a fortune, which I feel is typical Harry)  
> ★ Doncaster Dome is a [real place](https://www.dclt.co.uk/venues/the-dome/), with the only split-level ice-skating rink in Europe. [Louis is extremely proud of it](https://harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/619632677543460864/2tiedships2-louis-love-of-the-donny-dome).  
> ★ Also, it has come to my attention that the Donny Dome has a [Larry history](https://bulletprooflarry.tumblr.com/post/176844283321/is-it-common-knowledge-that-louis-and-harry)! I had no idea about this when writing it but, the more you know.  
> ★ The Yorkshire slang is fact-checked by Louis himself in [this interview](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGgQrTAm_io).  
> ★ Harry’s ice-skating escapades are obviously inspired by the [Night Changes music video behind the scenes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjbHB0QgXrQ).  
> ★ The title of this chapter (and the scene it inspired) is a nod to the Killing Eve [episode finale](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PuvvVQZIfAM) of season 3.


	12. This Was Almost Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a hot mess, forgive me...

On the night of the 31st of December, Harry and Louis climb the elevator to the top floor of the Sky Garden. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since Christmas Eve, and there’s a strange, almost shyness in the air. Before Harry has time to really think about it, the elevator beeps and opens onto the top floor of the skyscraper.

Immediately, they’re struck by the 360-degree views of London’s setting sun. Everywhere, Gemma and Michal’s friends and family spill out into the space. Some sitting by the bar, others laughing and standing beside the array of ferns and tropical plants that dip out over their garden beds. A couple of them are out on the outdoor observation deck, smoking and mingling.

“Holy shit,” Louis curses under his breath as they walk through the entrance hall and out into the expansive, open-plan indoor garden and viewing platform. Their shoes tap gently on the slate tiles, light bouncing off every panel of glass from wall to ceiling, creating geometric shards across the room.

“You’ve never been before?” Harry asks, eyes trained ahead to the spectacular, limitless views of the London skyline. Directly in front of them, the Thames and the Shard standing impressively against the backdrop of fading daylight.

“No.” Louis shakes his head, staring up at the glass ceiling as the darkening sky glints through. “I mean, I knew there was like, a bar and a bit of a garden up here, but I didn’t realise…”

“Yeah, pretty cool, isn’t it?” Harry says. “S’like… one big massive greenhouse.”

“38 stories high,” Louis remarks, looking back behind them, where they just came through, and above it, where full-height trees shoot up into the sky. On either side are sets of impressive stairs that go up to the second viewing platform, full of lush greenery and views of the other side of London. Along the staircase at different intervals, there’s mini landscaped gardens with pebbled stone floors. The third and final platform is a glass box suspended above them; a second and more intimate, atmospheric bar.

Besides planter boxes of flowering African lilies, standing tables decorate the space, people leaving their flutes of champagne on them or leaning against them while they chat. A champagne tower dominates the centre of the room and waiters duck in and out of circles, refilling every glass. The whole thing is Gatsby-esque, as if a return to the 20s this new year has brought about a resurgence in elegance and opulence.

“Exactly.”

“I don’t know where to look,” Louis laughs, turning on the spot. He stares up at the ceiling – two stories high – at the curved roof and glass that reveals the oncoming night. Not a single part of the infrastructure obscures the panoramic view. “So fucking sick,” he says quietly to himself, and Harry smiles so wide he thinks it might start to hurt soon. “Gotta show this to Nialler and Payno,” he adds, taking a quick snap and sending it. 

The group chat has been alit since Boxing day when tickets went on sale for the reunion tour. Unsurprisingly, every show sold out in record time – _literally_ , taking out South Korean boyband EXO for the top spot. When Harry looks at the numbers, an unimaginable 250,000 tickets sold in 0.2 seconds, he’s reminded just how fucking cool his job is. Liam keeps sending screenshots of people’s tweets, and even a viral TikTok of a fan crying hysterically about missing out on tickets. Louis doesn’t hesitate to find her contact information and sends her V.I.P tickets to the show in her city. Those fortunate enough to grab up tickets haven’t shut up about it, and Harry’s mentions are even crazier than they were when the video leaked. Sometimes he enjoys lurking in the hashtag, randomly liking people’s posts if they make him laugh. It’s pure chaos.

Anne spots Harry and Louis first, rushing over with a massive dimpled smile on her face. She looks beautiful, dressed in a flattering black lace evening dress with red-stained lips. It’s flowy and witchy in the best way. Robin trails behind, ruddy faced and grinning, clearly already tipsy.

“Mum, you’ve Stevie Nicks-ed the shit out of that!” Harry says, arms already open and ready. She chuckles brightly, twirling to show off the spin of her skirt. 

“I’m guessing that’s a compliment?” Louis mutters and Harry shoots him a silly smile.

“Only the best compliment, love,” Anne explains, eyes twinkling. She takes her son in her arms and Harry feels the weight of the world just completely dissolve in her arms. She’s barely pulled away before she’s embracing a startled Louis too, patting his back vigorously in the way she always does. Robin stands witness, chuckling ruefully. For all the fear Harry had about reuniting with one another’s families, he had been completely misguided. It seems they had missed Louis as much as he had.

Before long, Gemma and Michal approach them. They look effervescent together; Gemma’s red lips smiling bright, Michal’s charcoal suit matching his fiancé’s smart yet sexy jumpsuit and towering heels ensemble. Harry engulfs his sister in an all encompassing hug, while Louis shakes Michal’s hands and says his congratulations.

“This is quite the venue, mate,” Louis remarks, gesturing to the Sky Garden. Michal lets out a laugh and Gemma pulls away from her brother to interject in the conversation.

“We _were_ just going to do something simple, no bells and whistles, back in Holmes Chapel at the local pub like.” Gemma gives her brother a stare, eyebrow arched in accusation. “But I mentioned something about wanting to have a drink here and this one thought he’d make a scene about brotherly love.” Gemma rolls her eyes, pursing her lips. But Harry can tell, under her façade, she is endeared. She takes a small sip of her champagne, staining the glass with her cherry red lipstick. “Practically threatened to buy this entire skyscraper if we didn’t comply.”

“It was my engagement gift!” Harry says, defensively. “Who can say no to a present?” He looks to Louis for reassurance, but the other man shakes his head and scoffs.

“And then the worst of it being he got this sod in on it,” Gemma continues, patting Michal’s chest with a gentle palm. “And then I couldn’t exactly turn down my brother _and_ my fiancé…”

“A whole fiasco,” Michal agrees, smirking at Harry. When Harry got the idea, he called Michal immediately. He was so excited that his enthusiasm rubbed off on Michal almost instantly. That’s what Harry liked about him, aside from making his sister endlessly happy. He is always up for a challenge or an adventure. They conspired against Gemma for most of it and clearly, Michal has no regrets about it.

“Harry, you’re fucking ridiculous,” Louis concludes, making Gemma laugh.

“Still, we love him,” Gemma says, signature smirk colouring her face.

“That we do,” Louis agrees and Harry sees the knowing look in Gemma’s eyes, the way she watches Louis as if she knows something that neither of them does. He expects a talk about it later, but until then, he’ll breathe easy.

“You ready for your speech later tonight, baby bro?” Gemma turns away from Louis, changing the subject.

“Born ready, Gems,” Harry says, grinning. “I was planning on doing a whole performance out of _Mamma Mia!_ complete with backup dancers, but Michal vito’d that pretty early on, sadly.”

“A shame,” Gemma agrees, then, turning to Michal, “So glad I’m marrying you.”

“ _Heyyyyyyy.”_ Harry pouts. “You would have loved it, don’t lie.”

“Just let it go, mate, let it go,” Louis suggests, patting Harry’s shoulder, commiserating.

Later, Harry finds his place on the elevated plinth, clearing his throat into the microphone and garnering the attention of everyone standing around. He looks into the crowd at Anne and Robin sidled together smiling, Gemma and Michal with Louis, looking up from their animated conversation to give Harry their fullest attention.

“Hi, erm, I’m Harry. Most of you will know me as Gemma’s younger, far less talented or interesting brother,” Harry says with a grin and Gemma rolls her eyes as the crowd collectively chuckles. He continues, briefly describing what it was like to grow up with studious, perfect Gemma, stirring some more laughter from her friends and family.

“So, I first met Michal… about five years ago. It was after one of my band’s shows,” Harry says, “See, that’s one of the great things about being a musician. I can offer my sister a great first date and I get to keep an eye on the bloke the whole night without it being weird or creepy.”

“Was still weird and creepy, mate!” Michal shouts and Gemma slaps him, trying to hold back laughter.

“You, be quiet.” Harry points at him sternly, and the audience laughs. “As I was saying.” He puts his hands on his hips and for a moment, he forgets he’s giving a speech at his sister’s engagement party, performer Harry coming out. And then he sees the small smile on his sister’s face and the way Michal squeezes her side. His heart nearly melts. He takes a breath, shakes out the humour, and clears his throat. “I can’t say I really remember what I thought of Michal backstage all those years ago. But I do remember the look on my big sister’s face. I could just tell this was a good one. And she’s been smiling like that ever since, really. And Michal, that’s because of you.” He gives Michal a grateful glance and the other man nods minutely, sheepish almost.

“My sister is my rock. I can’t say I’ve been an easy baby brother, probably quite annoying, if I’m honest.” He shrugs and the audience chuckles wryly. “But she’s stuck by me through everything. I’m so grateful to have her. Watching the two of you...” He gestures with his champagne glass. “Fall deeper in love every day has been an honour. If not a bit gross, to be honest,” he laughs and Gemma rolls her eyes, “What you two’ve got, it’s really…” Harry makes the mistake of glancing at Louis then and his throat closes up. Their eyes lock, and suddenly, he feels overwhelmingly exposed. Louis mouths something encouraging with a crinkle of sadness at his eyes. Harry blinks out of his daze and forces himself to look away. He could look into Louis’ eyes for the rest of the evening, for the rest of his life, if he’s being truthful. But he can’t. Not here.

“S’just completely beautiful,” Harry concludes, “I can’t imagine two people more deserving of a happily ever after than Gemma and Michal. So, you know.” He raises his glass. “Cheers.”

The audience collectively raises their glasses and mouths _cheers._ Harry finds the confidence then, as he’s moving away from the mic, to look back across at Louis. Louis’ face, as it often has been lately, is unreadable. But for once, it doesn’t fill Harry with unease or anxiety.

Harry joins Louis’ side as Gemma makes her way up to the podium. She clears her throat, opens her mouth to address everyone, and Harry can’t focus on anything except the buzzing energy of Louis standing next to him.

“Not going to say anything too soppy because really, we don’t have time for that, but what I will say…” Gemma’s voice fades into the background, Harry withdrawing into his mind. He feels Louis’ presence beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and just totally surrenders himself to the feeling.

He finds himself going through the motions when she raises her glass and everyone else does too, zoning back in to properly hear the end of her speech. “So enjoy the open bar, get pissed, kiss someone at midnight, and here’s looking at you, 2020!” 

The crowd disperses and the low hum of talk blossoms in the expansive space. The band starts up again and tasteful jazz music follows Harry and Louis around as they shake hands and hug friends, new and old.

Later, when Harry’s voice is already hoarse from talking to endless relatives and long lost school friends, he and Louis find a moment alone. They take the stairs up to the north viewing area, stopping halfway to admire the view. On the right, abundant greenery is lit from underneath by purple and warm yellow lights. On the left, their reflections on the city skyline. On the glass, labels point out the different landmarks on display, Wembley Stadium and Barbican.

Downstairs, the live-band plays an abridged version of _Auld Lang Syne,_ filling Harry with immediate nostalgia as the song drifts up around them.

When Harry and Louis finally reach the north view, which is totally unoccupied, they stop to take in the sight. In front of them, the city is alive; bright lights of all colours dotting the horizon, like rainbow stars brought down from the galaxy and scattered across the pitch black London night. It’s breathtaking.

They sit on the bench that lines the glass wall, their backs to the view. Harry and Louis lean against the glass, staring up at the ceiling, tinted pink and blue by the atmospheric lights. Behind them, the Gherkin sits at eye level. 

“I still can’t believe you did all this. It’s so…” Louis shakes his head in disbelief, drinking in the surroundings. He gently places his champagne on the wood next to him, then draws his legs in and wraps his arms around them.

“Nice?” Harry supplies wryly.

“I was thinking more along the lines of extravagant.” Louis squints, smirking, cat-like. “Over the top. _Too much_.”

Harry chuckles, then tilts his head back against the glass. He stares up at the inky sky.

“What’s the point in having money if you can’t do nice things for people?” he says, lolling his head to the side to face Louis.

“I get it,” Louis says, nodding, “I’d have done the same for Lotts or Fizz.”

A moment of quietude falls and Louis turns around to look at the view. Harry listens to the song, heart aching at the reminder to take a cup of kindness for days gone by. He wishes he could do that – be kind to himself and the mistakes he’s made. He wishes he could rewrite history altogether. Then maybe he and Louis wouldn’t be sitting in loaded silence right now.

The woman croons on, her voice filling the air, bringing a wistfulness with her.

> _We too have paddled in the stream_
> 
> _From morning, sun, and night_
> 
> _But the seas between us broad have roared_
> 
> _From auld lang syne._

Louis turns to face Harry, breaking his reverie.

“What the fuck is an Auld Lang Syne, anyway?”

And Harry laughs, grateful for it, _always_ grateful for Louis.

“I think it means… ” The chorus starts up again for one final time and Harry immediately thinks of Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan at the end of _When Harry Met Sally_ , finally getting it right, after years and years. In the middle of that big party, both their hair so 80s and permed and bickering, lovingly, over the lyrics of the song. The movie line comes to Harry, then, “It’s about old friends.” 

Louis, not quite catching Harry’s reference - and why should he? He never liked romantic comedies like Harry did - scoffs and says, “The bloody Scots. They’ve never made much sense.”

“Careful not to say that around Niall. He’s protective of his boyfriend,” Harry teases, smirking at his own joke. Louis guffaws, eyes crinkly and smile wide.

“This kind of gives me vertigo,” Louis says, thumb pointing in the direction of the window. “If I look at it too long.”

“Makes me feel… small,” Harry says, musing. “Like… as if everything that I’m worried about doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

“That’s not true,” Louis says, voice hoarse. He nudges Harry’s side with a gentle elbow. “Those things are still important.”

“No, it’s… it’s a good thing,” Harry explains. “It takes the pressure off. I feel comforted by it.”

Louis makes a sound of understanding, nodding to himself. Then, with a mischievous smile, “What have you got to worry about, anyway?”

But when Harry doesn’t laugh and instead chews at his lip, Louis drops the façade.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks, sitting up straighter, moving his body toward Harry.

Harry wants to tell Louis how he feels. Because more and more lately, it feels as if Louis might feel the same. What they have is complicated, but it’s also special. It’s also real. Harry wants to tell Louis that he’s so afraid of losing him again, that it scares him into silence. But the very nature of the beast keeps his mouth shut.

“M’not… as confident… about these things as you think I am,” he says instead, frowning at his inability to articulate himself. Louis quirks his head, listening but clearly not understanding. There’s a nervous look on his face and he swallows hard, waiting for Harry to continue. “I –” Harry cuts himself off, huffing with frustration. “I can’t stop thinking about how this was almost us.”

“I know what you mean,” Louis says eventually. He looks across at Harry, face mirroring his emotions.

They exist in that moment, for a lingering time, before Louis clears his throat. He checks his phone, then with a sucked in breath says, “We should get back down for the fireworks. It’s nearly 12.” And just like that, what was said stays left behind in the darkened room.

Downstairs, everyone gathers around the glass, some braving the frosty night air by leaning out over the deck, others rushing to get one final drink from the bar before joining the group. Harry follows behind Louis, filtering through the people until they’re close to the front with an uninterrupted view of the London skyline where the fireworks will take place.

Those around them laugh and sing, celebrating lively. Nearby, Gemma and Michal are swaying back and forth, singing loudly with their friends to _Don’t Stop_ by Fleetwood Mac _._ Anne and Robin dance, conservatively rocking their hips back and forth with a chuckle.

“Hey,” Louis says, fingers brushing gently against Harry’s wrist, against the anchor tattoo. Harry turns at the touch to face a wistful looking Louis. “Remember our first New Year’s eve together?" 

The words bring back an immediate onslaught of memories of December 2011. The first New Year’s at Princess Park, they hosted a housewarming and celebration for 2012. At the time, Harry and Louis were on the cusp of something – between friends and lovers, not quite sure where they stood. It built between them slowly and tentatively for months, but it wasn’t until they’d moved in together that Harry really let it in. Now, Harry feels his heart warm at the fond memories of his innocence. 

“How can I forget?” Harry asks, smiling now, relieved for the change in topic. He thinks of the following morning, of people sleeping on windowsills and slices of bacon on the couch. “The place was an absolute tip the next day. We thought we were going to get evicted for it.”

“If I recall correctly, you single-handedly covered the walls with tomato sauce,” Louis says, eyebrow arched in accusation.

“Chili,” Harry corrects and then his brain catches up with his mouth. “But, _hey,_ that wasn’t me!”

Before Harry has a chance to dispute it further, they’re both distracted by the collective shouting that shakes the room. There’s less than twenty seconds until midnight. They both turn to face one another again as the room yells numbers.

Louis laughs, keeping his fingers at Harry’s wrist, holding him gently. “You fancied me.”

Harry scrunches his face, embarrassed. “No…”

“Yeah, you did,” Louis says, ignoring the way the room has become slow motion, _fourteen… thirteen…_ “You got so pissed and started talking absolute shit. I had no idea you were trying to tell me you liked me.”

Harry cringes but laughs all the same. He ignores everyone else, leaning in and saying loudly, “What was I meant to do? I thought you had a girlfriend!” His face is fretful, but Louis watches him, seemingly nonplussed, but humouring him, letting him speak. The world keeps spinning and time continues ticking down – _five, four…_ “And you’d been flirting with me for months!” And then, shouting at the same time everyone else screams, _one!_ “I was very confused!”

Louis, expression endeared, lets out a laugh the moment a collective shout of _Happy New Year!_ fills the room. He shakes his head, miffed by Harry’s ardency. Before Harry can really process that they aren’t play-fighting anymore, Louis gets on his tiptoes and surges forward. The first thing Harry does in the new year is kiss Louis back, their mouths pressed against one another’s smiles.

 _God, I love him,_ Harry thinks, palm coming up to cup Louis’ cheek. And Harry thinks, maybe, if he’s even halfway lucky, Louis loves him too. It’s becoming less fantastical as time wears on. He sees it in Louis’ smile lines, in that particular laugh just for him. In the way Louis relaxes his whole body when Harry is near. He’s seen it all before. A long time ago. He’s sure of it and so unsure at the same time.

Louis pulls back to smile up at Harry with his denim blue eyes, looking self-satisfied. “We figured it out, though, didn’t we?”

“In the end,” Harry agrees, eyes sparkling. 

Around them, although they are in their own world, the New Year’s fireworks explode over the horizon. Growing at super speed, blossoming like radioactive flowers out of the rooftops of the nearby skyscrapers.

Probably, definitely, this is the best possible view of the new year in the whole of London. And Harry isn’t even looking at it.

* * * 

On these particularly brutal winter days in January, Harry’s favourite spot in his house is the sunroom. The wall-to-wall French windows and elegantly pitched skylight roof offer a relaxing, sun-soaked space. It’s as close to sitting outside while still being protected from the elements as it gets, overlooking his landscaped garden and enjoying his (now thriving, thanks to his mother’s green thumb) indoor plants.

Although it’s gloomy and overcast, Harry and Sarah sit in the conservatory on a wicker couch and chairs, catching up on one another’s lives since they last saw one another. He recounts the extent of his and Louis’ relationship as of the American Music Awards (excluding the random tidbits that he’d shared with her throughout the weeks via text message). Sarah’s usually impassive features grow more expressive by the minute.

“I can’t believe you haven’t told me any of this until now,” Sarah says, eyes wide and mouth blowing gently at the brim of her hot tea. The steam floats out around her before vanishing completely. She takes a minute sip then places her cup on a coaster. “You must have been going mad trying to decode these mixed signals.”

Harry puffs out his cheeks and lets the air out dramatically, smiling. “Yep.”

“So, talk me through New Year’s.” Sarah cradles her tea once more, leaning against the rattan arm of her chair, face in thought.

It’s been just over a week since Louis and Harry rang in the new year together with a giddy kiss at midnight and the only interactions that have transpired since have been friendly messages in the One Direction group chat. Niall and Louis are still – _relentlessly_ – competing over the group chat name, and it’s escalated to the point that now Liam and Harry are required to choose sides. The last Harry heard from Louis, he was reacting to Niall’s banter with gifs of himself. They’d done that for a solid hour, sending reaction gifs – even throwing Harry under the bus once or twice with an old gif of him looking embarrassingly disgruntled in some old One Direction interview he didn’t recall.

Needless to say, this didn’t help clarify anything about the nature of their relationship. So, Harry finally organised to see his best friend, encouraged that her usual words of wisdom may come in handy right about now.

“Okay.” Harry looks skyward, thinking. “I think it went… well. I mean, I dunno. It’s hard to read him, y’know? We had fun, I think.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. He frowns deeply, licking his lips. “It’s confusing. We have these… moments where I feel like… sounds cheesy but,” he laughs self deprecatingly, but Sarah, wonderful Sarah, doesn’t. “He just looks at me and I swear he just _knows_. He… _understands._ I can just see it. But then I think, if I knew how I felt, then why hasn’t he said anything?”

Sarah nods. “Instincts are important, H. You have to listen to them.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…” he trails off.

“You’re scared,” Sarah supplies softly.

“Exactly,” he sighs. “He’s all jokes and laughter… he’s never serious – except when he is –and then he’s… broody and guarded and I’m not sure where I stand. He’s funny and we get along, always have. And… obviously we’re compatible, well, like, in the bedroom.” He flushes. Harry never imagined he’d be in this sort of arrangement with his ex. “But it _can’t_ be just sex. Well, at least, it feels like it isn’t. S’like at the count down. He was looking at me so strangely and then when he kissed me… there was just… no way it wasn’t mutual.”

Sarah regards Harry wistfully, drawing her legs in and curling up on her armchair comfortably. “It really sounds like he feels the same, Harry.”

“You really think so?” Harry asks, chewing his lip. He believes her, but he wants to hear more. He wants the validation that he’s not totally losing his mind.

“It’s just like you said. You’ve been playing house and it’s gone far beyond the pretence of PR. You’ve got so much history, I understand that… and you’re letting that dictate how you go forward. But it shouldn’t. If you really believe in your heart that he understands you, then there can’t be any denying it.”

“You’re right,” Harry says simply, absorbing her impassioned speech.

“Of course I am.” Sarah smiles. “The man is a complete fool for you.”

“He’s got to be! Right? Why else would he do those things? He invited me home for the holidays, he kisses me when nobody is around…” Harry says, gaining confidence, listing evidence on his fingers. His eyes go wide, a lightbulb moment. “Did I tell you that he cried when we performed _Falling_?”

“No!” Sarah exclaims, smiling now at her friend’s newfound enthusiasm.

“Yes! Niall told me so!” Harry exclaims, hands waving. “Come to think of, I should probably update him,” he says, more to himself really. He frowns at his phone, quickly pulling up Niall’s contact and typing: _Okay. Might have been right about the Louis stuff… keep you posted x_

“This is all sort of exciting if I’m honest,” Sarah says, smiling. “Something out of a proper good rom com.”

Harry’s phone buzzes not long after, and Niall’s infuriated reply appears on his home screen: _Styles, vague as fuck ! pls call me !_

“It’s only a rom com if it goes well, Sare,” Harry says, a hint of unease in his tone.

“Oh, please,” Sarah scoffs. “You’re a catch!” 

Later, when the sun has set and Sarah has gone home, Harry gets a call from Jane. He’s in the middle of cooking, humming along to Fleetwood Mac’s _Rumours_ and shimmying into the pantry as he uses the wooden spoon as a mic.

He rushes to catch it on the final ring, putting her on speakerphone and returning to the stove.

“Calamity Jane!” He beams, shouting over the music. Then, reluctantly turning it down a few volumes. “How can I help you?”

“You are so strange sometimes,” Jane laughs, but quickly recovers. “Anyway. Yes. I’m just calling to remind you, the team over at One Direction and I want to get together for a chat.”

“Sure, when?” Harry sprinkles a handful of vegetables into the pan, then wipes his hands on his apron.

A static silence, while Jane presumably checks the schedule. “Looking like it’ll be this Friday.”

“Easy peasy,” Harry says, chipper as ever. He dips his pointer finger into his bubbling sauce, tastes it, and nods to himself in earnest. “What for, exactly?”

“Oh! Just to touch base with you two, see how you’re doing. Reassess the PR situation.”

“Wait – ” Harry frowns, turning attention away from his cooking and staring at his phone where it sits on the countertop beside him. “This isn’t a meeting with Niall and Liam?”

Jane is silent for a moment. “Oh, no, didn’t I mention that?” she says casually. “Sorry! It’s just you and Louis.”

“Right. Oh.” Harry’s body language deflates. The information clicks into place, and it dawns on him what this might mean. “Oh, _that_ kind of meeting.”

“Yes, I know,” Jane replies, exasperated on his behalf, totally misunderstanding his tone. “It’s been a long time coming. I’ve been trying to hassle this together, can’t imagine you two want to have to do this much longer.”

Harry freezes, caught in a daze. 

“Harry, you still with me?” Jane asks after a prolonged silence.

“Oh, yep, m’here, Jane,” he says, “That’s all fine. I’ll see you Friday.”

* * *

Harry tries calling Louis to set up a time to talk before the meeting, but it goes straight to voicemail. _Call me,_ he texts, reluctantly, and spends the three days leading up to the meeting waiting by his phone. Louis doesn’t call, and he doesn’t text either. Harry pretends it isn’t worrying, that it doesn’t bother him. After all, Louis has always been a terrible online communicator, almost worse than Harry himself, and it shouldn’t mean anything. Yes. That’s what it must be. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. 

Arriving at the building on Friday, Harry knows he shouldn’t be worried. They don’t have to agree to anything they don’t want to. But he was really hoping to be able to speak with Louis beforehand, and he’s not sure they’re ready to explain any of their… _developments_ to their colleagues. 

“Hey, Haz,” Louis says, breaking into a smile he almost looks guilty about. When Harry sees it, he feels instantly at ease. Convinces himself, just from that smile that it’s all been one big, silly misunderstanding. There’s no way Louis has been intentionally ignoring him the last few days.

“Hey,” Harry says, smiling too, thinking he knows why Louis looks so nervous. “Did you lose your phone again?” he asks, head cocked. Louis went through about five phones in 2015 because he was so bad at keeping track of them. He hopes that’s the reason for his silence this time. “I tried calling you like, a bunch of times.” He lets out a nervous laugh, but it dies on his lips when he sees the look on Louis’ face.

“Yeah, no. I know. I’m sorry,” Louis mumbles, averting Harry’s eyes. “Been busy.”

“Oh.” Harry frowns, combing a hand through his curls, trying to keep his hands busy. Something feels off. Something isn’t right. But he can’t quite put his finger on it. “Right. That’s okay.”

“Listen, H,” Louis finally says, looking at Harry with dark eyes. “We should probably talk about-"

“Harry!” Jane’s voice cuts through their conversation and Louis’ head whips around in surprise. “And Louis!” She grins, approaching them with a demeanour of calm enthusiasm that Harry can’t imagine right now. Harry keeps his eyes on Louis until the very last second when he knows he has to acknowledge his manager.

“Jane!” he says, pretending like he only just noticed her calling his name. He forces a wide smile on his nervous face.

“We’re all set up,” she says with a smile, looking between the pair with complete naivety. “Shall we?”

Louis gives a tight-lipped smile, and Harry knows from that look alone, that this meeting isn’t going to go well. 

He follows Louis into the conference room, a warm and inviting space with an over-abundance of indoor plants. Harry wonders vaguely if they’re fake. Before them, chatting amongst themselves is Eddie, Louis’ manager Helen, a transcriber and a blonde woman Harry doesn’t recognise. Jane joins the other four opposite Harry and Louis, smiling warmly, encouragingly. 

“Good to see you both,” Eddie says as he stands and shakes their hands hastily, followed by the woman beside him and a quiet nod from the transcriber. “I trust you’re well?”

Harry nods somewhat numbly as he sits down next to Louis. 

“Well, let’s get right to it,” Eddie smiles widely, looking to the woman beside him. She nods in approval. “Since you both insisted on no NDAs or contracts, this whole arrangement has been quite unofficial and lax. We were reluctant to bring you in at all, which is why it’s taken some time. The fact of the matter is it’s working far better than we could have expected and we wanted to see how far you’d be willing to take it. Publicity wise, it’s doing wonders for you both and the band collectively.”

Jane clears her throat, outwardly frustrated. “Yes, and I reminded them you’re human beings, not publicity generating machines. So…”

Harry lets out a gentle chuckle at that. He sees Louis’ head whip to look at him in the corner of his eye and feels suddenly self-conscious. The laughter dies on his lips. 

“Yes, and we’ve heard those concerns.” The woman beside Eddie, Elaine, says in a manner that is meant to prompt a subject change. She wasn’t at the last meeting and something about her presence makes Harry think she’s more powerful than she might have let on when introducing herself earlier. “Thus, here we are.” 

“So… what exactly…?” Louis begins, narrowing his eyes.

“Right, well,” Eddie says, abruptly shuffling his paperwork. “It’s up to you, basically. Where we go with this. We’ve got three potential timelines here.” He looks down at his sheet. “For the best possible outcome to stage a breakup. We’ve got, well.” He shrugs, reacting to the dates on the page with a look of hesitancy. “In the next few weeks to help boost interest in Louis’ album. But that would be cutting it fine. We usually like to ease everyone into it, so that it feels more organic,” he explains, looking between Harry and Louis. Then, when they don’t say anything, he clears his throat and continues, “Uh, then we could wait until March for Harry’s. Or, to keep it mutually beneficial, sometime around the start of tour.”

“I’d like to make it clear that the team isn’t fond of that particular idea,” Elaine chimes in, lips pursed to show her distaste, and Harry is sure now that she has the final say on this thing. All communication has, until now, come through the timid, blustering Eddie from Capitol Records. Elaine is the opposite – poised, composed. It should be off-putting, considering the number of bad experiences he’s had with executives and marketing teams over the years. But it’s actually oddly comforting. He trusts her to do what is good not just for Harry and Louis, but for the band as well. So he leans forward and listens intently to what else she has to say. “We hope to avoid that entirely, actually. We want the group to present a united front and it would appear negative if you two were to publicly split on the eve of the highly anticipated reunion. Not _all_ publicity is good publicity, despite how the saying goes.”

The room goes stagnant. Eddie looks between his colleagues and Harry and Louis, nervous.

“Whatever you decide, boys, it’s completely your choice, okay?” Louis’ manager, Helen, pipes up. Her kind eyes and soft face reassures Harry instantly. Jane is nodding quietly to herself from the other side of the table. Harry feels, above everything, so loved and supported in this room. To imagine a situation like this in, say 2013, with the likes of Simon Cowell and Syco, makes him sick to his stomach.

“And uhm.” Harry clears his throat, where he swears his heart has travelled up into, nearly choking him. He doesn’t dare look at Louis, who has been silent the entire meeting. Never in his entire life has he wanted to read someone else’s mind more than he does right now. “What if we were to… y’know, keep it going long term?”

“Oh.” Eddie blinks, startled, like the idea never crossed his mind. He shares a look with Elaine, who remains utterly neutral. “Well, I suppose that could be discussed. We were just under the impression from speaking to Jane and Helen…”

Jane and Helen exchange baffled glances and Harry can just picture the aftermath of this meeting, of their burning questions. He can tell he’s given too much away. Jane is going to be relentless in her pursuit of answers. 

“That would be fairly simple, I imagine,” Elaine says with a shrug. “Contractually, at least. But I should preface, it is a lot to commit to personally, long term. Plenty of people in the industry have had successful marriages through such an arrangement. But… you’d have to understand, you would be sacrificing any hope of a real love life for the remainder of your public relationship. If even a whiff of cheating rumours come out, it could be incredibly damaging to both of your images.”

“That’s not really, erm.” Harry clears his throat, feeling exposed. “An issue. At least for me. I’m not interested in…” Harry’s eyes dart to Louis, trying to gauge his feelings. He’s being so painfully obvious, isn’t he? Why isn’t Louis saying anything? Why isn’t he agreeing? “Any of that stuff right now.”

“In that case…” Eddie begins, looking between them with an expression that suggests he isn’t quite sure how to proceed. “That can definitely be considered. But, ideally, we would need things in writing to move forward…”

Louis is fidgeting in his chair, looking nervous and on edge. Harry watches him, covertly, with his own nerves on display. The energy in the room is full of their unease, and everyone can feel it. It’s palpable. They just have no idea why.

“We understand it’s a lot to consider,” Elaine says, clasping her hands together. By the look on her face, she genuinely means what she’s saying. “You don’t have to decide anything right away, we have some time.”

“How long?” Louis says and Harry nearly jumps, surprised to hear his high, raspy voice for the first time since they arrived. He tries to keep his eyes trained forward, act calm and collected, but his heart wins over his head, and he turns to look at Louis. His expression is hard and serious. It’s then that Harry realises things might be worse than he thought. 

“Two weeks. Any longer than that and we won’t have enough time to seed a breakup to the public in anticipation for your album release on January 31st.”

“Is that doable for you two?” Helen asks.

Louis nods, then, with a cold nonchalance he asks the room at large, “Is that everything?” But Harry knows him better than that, can see the shake in his hands, the tightness in his jaw like he’s restless and itching to escape his own body. 

“Harry?” Jane’s voice sounds off in the distance, and when he turns to face her, delayed, he realises he’d been staring at Louis quite obviously. Everyone watches him with concern.

“Two weeks. Yes.” He says vacantly. 

Harry blinks, and time has already run away from him. He and Louis step into the elevator, a heavy silence between them as they ride down to the ground floor. They stand half a meter apart, stock still, staring ahead at the numbers ticking down. Harry bites his lower lip, forcing himself to stay mute, to wait until they can have a moment to absorb all the information they’ve just been given.

He lasts about one whole minute.

Harry turns to face Louis, who in turn, looks at him, albeit wearily.

“This isn’t going to change anything, is it?” Harry asks, “We don’t have to…” He struggles to put his thoughts into words. “We can keep doing what we were doing?”

Louis almost sneers with his repulsion. The elevator stills, pings, and the doors slide open clunkily.

“This changes everything, Harry,” Louis says and then he moves out into the foyer. Harry follows behind blindly.

“Wait – why?” Harry frowns, feeling Louis’ words like a gut punch. Louis shakes his head, expression disappointed.

Louis turns around, walking backward while facing Harry. “Because. It just… it just _does_ , okay?” His eyes are downcast, and he turns back around, walking with more urgency than before. 

Without time for Harry to fully process it, they’re both out on the street, passing Tower Bridge Square, weaving in and out of the afternoon crowds. It’s an overcast day, but dry and tepid. Not a normal winter day in January. Nothing is normal about it, in fact.

“What d'you... If this is-” Harry readies himself to say what he’s been feeling for months now. He stops, checking the traffic before jogging across the street, following Louis. “Will you slow down?” he finally says, surging forward to tug on Louis’ jacket.

Louis stops, turning to look at Harry with watery eyes.

“If this is about something I’ve said, Louis, I’m –”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Louis interrupts, assuring, except that Harry feels anything but comforted right now. “It’s me.” He says it like that should be explanatory and starts walking again, determined. At least this time, he isn’t walking too fast for Harry to match his pace.

“I don’t understand.” Harry frowns, walking beside Louis now, as they enter the south entrance of Tower Bridge. Harry has to dodge tourists left and right, nearly knocking over an elderly woman trying to take a close up photo of the decorative blue and white railing. He apologises before catching up to Louis.

“Where are we going?” Harry says.

“ _I’m_ going home,” Louis says, jaw clenching. Their strides are matched, escalating in pace the further into the bridge they get. "If I talk about this here, I'll... It's too much, okay?" 

“Hey,” Harry says, voice low and assertive. “Stop it.” And then, to make his point, he stops walking, folds his arms and waits. People around him mutter under their breaths, forced to go around him like a stream to a rock.

Louis stills, back hunched, before turning around to face Harry. He slowly walks back the few meters distance between them and joins Harry by a gap in the railing. Before them, the whole of London on a silver platter. The Thames runs beneath them, rushing a dark teal green. Harry remembers the last time they were on this bridge together, with the boys and a huge film crew. Louis had gotten cold between takes. Harry gave him his jacket. He wishes things could be simple like that again. As simple as Harry lending Louis his jacket in the middle of the night, their whole lives ahead of them. 

Louis sucks in a shaky breath and chews his lower lip. “We said if it got like Eleanor – if it got _hard_ – we’d stop.”

“You think this is like Eleanor?” Harry asks, unable to disguise his anger. He takes a step back as if physically altered by Louis’ words.

“No, fuck no, that was a bad example. That’s not what I mean. It’s just – Harry, I –” Louis grabbles. “I thought if I could just… Maybe if I had the guts to just…” He’s frustrated. “Fuck! I can’t think straight. My head’s a fucking mess.”

“Louis, it’s okay, calm down,” Harry says, hands up in defeat, “We can talk this through.”

“I can't," Louis grits his teeth, "When I'm with you, I can't say no. I can't... do the right thing. Because you look at me and..." He shakes his head. "Fuck, there's a reason I didn't answer your calls. I don't have the guts to do what's right around you." 

"What's the right thing, Louis?"

"I thought I’d be fine with it, okay? With the… the fake dating shit and the holding hands and pretending to be in love. And then when we started fucking I thought: ‘Yeah, okay, this is fine, I can handle this.’ It was just a bit of fun, it didn’t have to mean anything. ‘I’ve got this under control.’ But turns out I wasn’t… turns out I really fucking don’t.”

“You don’t…” Harry blinks numbly, mouth gaping. He’s never been so painfully aware of reality, of his body, of time and space. His ears are ringing, and he feels like if a wind came through, it could push him away, he’s so paper-thin. He almost wishes it would. “You don’t love me?”

Louis sighs, and it feels like the whole universe is trapped against his mouth, waiting to be breathed in, breathed out. Everything hangs on it, everything.

“Harry,” he says, with more weight than he’s ever said his name before. “I’ve _always_ loved you.”

Harry goes to speak, but as Louis’ words sink in slowly to his core, he is silenced. The confession sits between them like a loaded gun.

_I’ve always loved you._

Oh. _Oh._

It’s one thing to believe Louis might have feelings, that he might have fallen back in love with Harry during this whirlwind time together, and another to be told directly that in fact, Louis has loved Harry the whole time. Never stopped loving him.

Suddenly everything clicks into place. Louis’ intense anger from the moment the video leaked and Harry showed up at his door, the way he switched uncontrollably from cold and aloof to warm and loving, as if he was fighting an internal battle with himself, trying to balance between protecting his own heart and allowing Harry back into it at the same time.

Like a movie reel, all the strange looks, all the cryptic words, all the contradictory choices come flooding into alignment in Harry’s mind. His mind replays every moment they’ve shared over the last three months – Louis’ tortured expression that first night the video leaked, the look he gave Harry before storming out of the meeting with Eddie and the team, the birthday print in Louis’ living room, _you’re a good kisser,_ the eight month relationship that _just wasn’t right_ , the sunflower in his bedroom. Even moments Harry thought he understood at the time are shed in a completely new light. Louis’ anger at being touched at the Halloween party, the way he’d spat, _you really believe you have it all figured out, but you don’t._ Louis’ vacant expression when they agreed not to touch, and then, his feverish hunger the second they changed their minds.

Harry has been so preoccupied trying to figure out where he stood with Louis, that he hasn’t stopped to think where he might have stood all along. He hasn’t stopped to think that Louis has loved him from the moment they met, for as long as they’ve been apart, to this very second right now.

He’s been completely blind.

Harry is stunned because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. When Harry imagined the moment, finally lifting the weight off their shoulders, telling each other their feelings, it didn’t look like this. Is history really always doomed to repeat itself?

“Then _why_ –” Harry begins, imploring.

“Getting over you? God, it was… it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” Louis looks down, blinking rapidly. “I don’t even really know if I did, in the end. Not fully. I just learned how to live without you, but that…” He finally looks up and his face is so broken. Harry just wants to fix it, but he can’t. “That _love_ was always there. In the back of me head. I just figured out a way to ignore it long enough to get by.” Louis swallows. “I… I just don’t think I would make it, you know if I had to do it again.”

“So, what, you’re going to leave, then?” Harry asks, voice completely drained of emotion. “Again?”

Louis’ lower lip quivers, threatening to give away that maybe he isn’t as strong as he presents himself to be. “I know it isn’t fair. I’ve… I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Just in the back of me head, like. I guess since I realised something serious was going on with us. I never really let myself properly consider that you might… that _we_ might…”

Harry goes to speak, to say, _but I do, I do love you._ But Louis closes his eyes and beats him to it.

“And then you go and you say we should just keep pretending.” Louis lets out a cold, startled laugh. “As if it’s that easy! As if it doesn’t just fucking destroy me to be with you like this again.”

“Louis, that isn’t what I meant, though, you know that–”

Louis shakes his head fervently. “I know, _I know._ ” He drags his hands across his face. _“_ But I wasn’t planning any of this. We just fucking fell into whatever the hell this is and I still thought as long as we… as long as _I_ was careful, it didn’t have to get messy. But then when Helen called about the meeting, I just. I panicked. I needed that wake-up call. I can’t keep living in some… some fucking fantasy. There are real world consequences to what I’m doing.” Louis speaks with such erratic conviction that Harry is worried he doesn’t even know the gravity of what he’s saying. “We just have to take their advice, stage a breakup, and move on with our lives.” He nods fervently to himself, and then, looking across at Harry, who’s expression is of utter disbelief, “Don’t look at me like that, fuck.” He leans forward, the breeze whipping his fringe to the side, running the palms of his hands down his face.

Harry swallows, gut churning and palms sweating. His eyes are welling up and his skin feels hot and prickly with emotion. He has so many things he wants to say, wants to scream, but instead his lower lip quivers and his mouth stays shut. Beside him, a couple are posing for a selfie with the view, the woman planting a gentle kiss on the man’s cheek. Harry wants to throw up.

“I can’t do this twice, Harry,” Louis finally adds, voice hoarse and eyes imploring. “I just can’t.”

“And you think _I_ can?” Harry asks, jaw set and eyes glaring. Suddenly he’s 22 years old and Louis is breaking his heart for the first time. And here they are, doing it again, always breaking each other’s hearts. “Why do you think it’s going to be the same?” Now he’s standing taller, crowding Louis’ space, trying to intimidate him into changing his mind. “Why does it have to end this time?”

“Because it always fucking does!” Louis yells, startling them both. There are tears in his eyes now. He stares at Harry with an unwavering intensity. People walking along the bridge are looking at them now, not outwardly, but in their own subtle ways. Neither Harry nor Louis care. They only have eyes for each other. “It’s always going to end the same fucking way. You _always_ break my heart, Harry.”

Harry, mouth agape, refusing to believe what’s happening, shakes his head numbly. “No,” he mouths, but he’s not even totally aware of what he’s objecting to. “No, you…" he begins, but his voice dies in his throat, dry and broken.

Louis, not unaffected but somehow choosing now, for the first time ever, to not rise to Harry’s bait, looks at him sadly. He’s already stepped back, slowly edging away from him. “I’m sorry.”

Harry blinks, the river air beating down on him and Louis’ words eating him up from the inside. Harry blinks and Louis is walking away. Again, always stuck in this paradigm, forever, Harry lets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end on such a cliffhanger, but I have finished writing the entire fic! How exciting. Which means the last two chapters are at the editing phase and should be up within the week! Hell yeah!
> 
> ★ The [Sky Garden](https://skygarden.london/what-is-sky-garden/) is a real place, and the views there are [spectacular](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nsBp5WG8I4E). I should know, I’ve been there! (Yes, this was added purely because it was one of my favourite places to visit).  
> ★ They did in fact, do an [NYE Gatsby Party](https://www.instagram.com/p/B6QwqClg8Hs/) for 2020, but obviously that was a public event.  
> ★ Harry saying [“Stevie Nicks-ed the shit out of that”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pb5hRfeVaSU) (a [family phrase](https://www.instagram.com/p/BvqtuMfA1Eq/))  
> ★ Harry’s speech refers to [this](https://youtu.be/SCY1qbUJkh4?t=29) concert moment in 2015 (which was Gemma and Michal on a date)  
> ★ Harry is talking about [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovkiChacfc8) in When Harry Met Sally.  
> ★ Louis telling the story about the New Year’s Eve is based on the [real party](https://bulletprooflarry.tumblr.com/tagged/nye+larry+flat/) they did, in fact, have for 2011  
> ★ Harry's memory is of filming the music video to Midnight Memories. He did give Louis' his coat. I struggled to find the source for this but I know it's a piece of Larry history. Lmk if you can find it!


	13. Witches and Break-Up Songs

Gemma shows up at Harry’s door that evening with a bottle of wine, vegan chocolate, and Harry’s favourite film, _The Notebook._ Harry doesn’t think he’d ever been more grateful to see another person right now. He’d explained it to her over the phone, mere hours after the fact. She’d immediately cursed and said she’d be over within the hour, but Harry had sworn her off, begging for time alone. He managed to keep her – and everyone else concerned for his wellbeing – at bay for a solid four days. That, it seems, was Gemma’s limit.

“I know it’s sort of late, but I just wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t come,” she says, determination written into the firm line of her lips and the knit of her brows. “I don’t know if you’re ready for a romantic film, but I thought I’d bring one anyway,” she says, walking over the threshold and squeezing Harry into a brief, but no less appreciated hug. She gives him a quick once over and it’s a true testament to the dire state of things that she doesn’t make fun of his dishevelled appearance. 

“You’re the best,” Harry sighs, closing the door behind him. He shuffles back through his house, four-day-old joggers sagging in all the wrong places, hair a matted mess and pulled up in a scrunchie. He’s even stopped bothering to shave. He must look awful. “No, seriously, you are.”

Now, two hours and one shower later, both their eyes puffy and cheeks tear-stained as the credits roll, Harry lets out a laboured sigh. They’re sitting in the dim of the cosy living room, the glare of the flat-screen TV illuminating their faces in the dark.

They sit in the quietude of the end credit soundtrack until Gemma leans across and tugs on the light cord of the lamp beside the couch, the very same one Harry nearly knocked over that night with Louis on this very same couch. But he’s trying not to think about that particular memory. A small orb of warm yellow light suspends around them and Harry blinks at the sudden brightness. 

“Are we going to speak about you-know-who or are we pretending he doesn’t exist?” Gemma asks tactfully, eyeing her brother knowingly. She swivels her upper body to face Harry side-on, propping an elbow against the back of the couch. The velvet dents under her weight, casing shadows of azure blue. 

“The latter, I think,” Harry says, sniffling, and then forcing a pitiful sort of chuckle. He breaks off a row of the chocolate and fills his mouth with it, saying, muffled, “If you don’t mind.”

Gemma gives a curt nod, then leans across to ruffle through her bag.

“In that case,” she says in a tone that reminds him she went to school for teaching. She pulls out a stack of bridal magazines and they make a smacking sound as she drops them on the coffee table in front of them. “Where should we start?”

Harry gapes between his sister and the pile of magazines. “ _No_ ,” he says, disbelieving. Gemma may be engaged, but she has never been the marrying kind. She adores other people’s weddings, but her neurotic personality makes for total chaos when it comes to planning her own. Whenever Harry has brought up venue options, dress designers or florist options, Gemma has simply cringed and insisted she’d sooner ‘get hitched at mum’s pub’. The idea of anyone making a big fuss over her makes her complexion go from white to beetroot red. Sometimes Harry wonders if it were up to her, she’d elope in the city hall. Fortunately, Harry and Anne won’t allow it. And, as Harry suspects – deep down – she sort of loves it. She’s just never been very good at being the centre of attention, that’s all.

“Well, you are my best man, aren’t you?” Gemma says, knowing full well this is brand new information that is set to make her baby brother a puddle of emotions on the floor.

“I am?” he says, eyes already watering again and mouth quivering.

“Oh, bloody hell, don’t cry, H,” she says, chuckling and patting him awkwardly on the back. “You knew this was coming, surely.”

Harry nods, pitifully, making Gemma laugh. “I suppose, but I… but it’s… oh.” He starts crying in earnest, and Gemma, who looks entirely regretful of her choice of words, is forced into coaxing him back off the brink.

“Oh, H…” she says, pulling her brother into a strong embrace. “It’s alright.”

“M’sorry,” Harry sniffles into her shoulder, “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“Don’t apologise,” Gemma assures him, circling his back with the palm of her hand. “It’s late and we just watched _The Notebook_ and you’re emotionally vulnerable. It’s to be expected, really. Let it out.”

“I’m just… so… happy… for you,” Harry says between sobs, pulling away from his sister to wipe his dripping nose on the back of his sleeve. She watches him with concern, looking unconvinced of his supposed joy. “I can’t believe you want me as best man,” he finally says, voice high and quivering.

“Sort of rethinking it now,” Gemma mutters and that makes Harry laugh, just like she knew it would. “You want some more vegan chocolate?” she asks, looking unconvinced as she offers him the rest of the block.

Harry nods, the hint of a smile at his mouth. He takes a huge, unceremonious bite into the block, and chews ardently. Gemma watches him do this, brows knitted and chewing on her lower lip. 

“You know that person we’re not talking about?” Gemma remarks. “He’s a total twat.”

“He’s not,” Harry mumbles, mouth full. “He’s not a twat at all.” He sniffles again, bites quickly, swallows and says, voice shaking, “It would make it a lot easier if he were. But he’s not.” Harry pouts and he’s sure he looks like a complete dickhead, but Gemma doesn’t say so. “I actually completely understand why he did what he did.”

“Doesn’t stop it from hurting like crap, though, hmm?” Gemma says and Harry nods, body sagging. Sensing Harry’s defeated attitude, Gemma straightens and resolves, “Alright, enough of that. We’ve got a wedding to plan.”

For a whole hour and a half, Gemma works a miracle, distracting Harry with hilariously naff bridal interviews, bizarre wedding trends, and repeating the same skit, over and over, which Harry falls for every time. She gasps believably, pretending to well up, and says, “Harry… I think this is the one,” before showing him a truly hideous dress. He doesn’t think of Louis the entire time. Not a single second. It’s got to be a record. That is until they’re mid-laughter over some cringey heteronormative magazine when a shrill ring over the intercom shatters their amusement. Someone is at the front gates.

“Are you expecting somebody?” Gemma asks, looking up from her copy of _Cosmopolitan Bride_ that claims it has ‘156 gowns to swoon over’ inside its pages.

“No.” Harry frowns, looking over at his front door as if a person will materialise at it. “It’s, like, one in the morning. M’gonna go to bed soon.” He looks back at Gemma and they share a look of unease. They don’t say it, but they’re definitely thinking the same thing. Could it be Louis? Is the world really that cruel?

Harry shrugs, puts down his magazine and shuffles to the front door to check the intercom. When he returns, his dazed expression makes Gemma fretful. 

“Who was it?”

“Erm.” Harry scratches the back of his neck. “Stevie Nicks is here.”

Gemma’s jaw drops. “You’re bloody kidding. No, she’s not.”

“Yes. And… about five other women who I can only assume make up her coven.”

Gemma snorts. “Well, are you going to let her in?”

“Oh,” Harry says, mouth agape. For some reason, that didn’t occur to him. “Yes.” He makes an aborted movement to the door, changing his mind and saying, “You’re here, though. We’re having family bonding time.”

“ _Fuck_ family bonding,” Gemma says with far too much enthusiasm. She waves her hands around dismissively. “It’s _Stevie Nicks_. You don’t say no to _Stevie Nicks_.”

“You’re right.” Harry nods fervently. Harry scuttles back off to the intercom, presses the unlock buzzer for his guest, and rushes back into the living room. Gemma still sits on the couch, looking as stunned as the moment he left her. “Er, okay, well. She’s coming.”

“What do we do?” Gemma asks, getting up off the couch. She looks around her frantically, at the mess – a sign of a great evening in – a packet of half-eaten chocolate digestives, the vegan chocolate wrapper, and two empty glasses of wine. “Hide the bloody digestives, fuck.” She snatches it up, scrunches it in the palm of her hand. “That is just not cool enough for Stevie Nicks. Bugger. Shit.”

“I’m so glad I showered and changed,” Harry says, patting himself down and deciding not much can be done about the fact that he’s in Paddington Bear pyjamas. Stevie Nicks isn’t a judgemental sort of person.

The front doorbell rings shrill and both Harry and Gemma jump comically from fright.

“You.” Harry points dramatically at Gemma. “Stay here.”

“Oh, god. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Pull yourself together, woman!” Harry bellows, equally as frazzled, and it must be a sight to behold – brother and sister scampering around like total nutters. Gemma nods frantically, and with that, Harry rushes to answer the door. 

He opens his door inward to a wise-eyed Stevie, flocked by her equally whimsical friends. She’s in all black, as are the other five women. Her eyes, heavily lined with black liner, pierce him on the spot. She knocks the wind right out of him every single time. He doesn’t think he’ll ever learn how to not be starstruck around her. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Stevie,” Harry says. Her long, brassy blonde hair and thick bangs could not be more welcomed right now. She gives a chuckle, radiant smile lines framing her face. She moves over the threshold to give him a strong hug.

“As are you, Harry,” she says against the butterfly tattoo on his stomach.

“It’s a wild and stormy night out there,” Stevie says when she pulls back, shivering. She peels off her knitted fingerless gloves, rubbing her naked palms together. “The sort of weather I imagine inspired Kate Bush’s _Wuthering Heights._ ”

Harry nods – agreeing, as he always does – with any of the strange, vaguely mysterious things Stevie says. He’s been told by people that’s probably why they get along. He’s not really sure what to make of that sort of observation.

She steps through the hallway, wearing, as is typical Stevie, a long floaty black dress and ridiculously tall heels. She’s still unimaginably short – a good head and a half beneath Harry – but her commanding, wise presence places her above everyone by miles. In that regard, she reminds Harry inexplicably of Louis – of his effervescent personality – and his heart does that swooping, wincing thing it’s been doing since that day on the bridge.

“I hope it’s okay, I brought the girls.” Stevie gestures vaguely to the women standing behind her, oddly in line, also adorned in black, like some strange witchy chorus from a Greek tragedy. “Mabel, Ester, Noelle, Stella and Carmen,” she introduces, and as each of their names are said, a woman nods or smiles minutely in Harry’s direction. He makes note that even their names seem fit for Salem, sometime during the witch trials. He wonders if it would be rude to ask how many lives they’ve had. “Girls, this is the wonderful Harry Styles.”

“Hi,” Harry says lamely, waving at the quite frankly, very intimidating group of Stevie’s posse. They nod silently back at him, sending him coy Mona Lisa smiles.

Before he has time to really understand that there are six 70-something-year-old women in his hallway, they’ve begun meandering into the living room. He freezes, then quickly catches up to them, finding Gemma with the packet of digestives still in hand. She stares up at the guests, then to Harry, then to her own hand. She quickly shoves the packet into the pocket of her jumper.

“Are you going to introduce me, H?” Stevie asks, half-smirking at his state of bewilderment. Gemma makes eyes at Harry and mouths ‘H’ dramatically to him. He rolls his eyes and returns her silent communication with his own: _be cool._

“Er, right,” Harry stutters, flushing. He walks over to his sister, gesturing, “This is my big sister, Gemma. Gemma, this is… well.” His hand falls to his side. “Stevie Nicks.”

“Please, call me Stevie,” she says demurely, her husky voice the very same Harry and Gemma listened to on repeat when they were kids. She extends a bejewelled hand, the clinking and clanking of her dozen bangles filling the room.

“Stevie,” Gemma repeats robotically, blinking like she’s glitching. Harry stifles a grin. He’s never seen his sister like this. He really should have introduced them sooner, simply for the pure joy that is watching this interaction. Somehow the two universes never collided until now – even though Gemma’s been to just as many of the Fleetwood Mac concerts as Harry has. He makes a mental note to never keep them apart again. 

“I’ve heard so much about you, Gemima.”

Gemma’s mouth is in a perfect ‘o’. Harry suppresses a snort and ends up sounding like he tried to sneeze. No one has ever called Gemma ‘Gemima’, and lived to tell the tale. But if anyone is going to get away with it, it’s Stevie Fucking Nicks. 

“All good things, darling,” Stevie assures her, patting atop Gemma’s hand because she still hasn’t let go of her. Stevie subtly withdraws her hand, and Gemma, delayed in taking the hint, retracts her own awkwardly. 

“Y-you too,” Gemma says, then laughs in a pitch Harry has never heard before. He wishes he had a camera. Starstruck Gemma is a sight to behold.

There’s a moment of hesitation and then Gemma seems to break from her trance.

“I’ll, er, leave you… to it,” she says, grabbing up her things quickly, all the while sending Harry shifty glances of pure adrenaline.

“Lovely to meet you, Gemima.” Stevie smiles.

“Thank you,” Gemma says, eyes wide. She frowns at her own comment, as she slowly walks backwards toward the door. “Thank you all.” Harry waves at her glazed over expression, finally catching her attention long enough for her to recompose herself and say, “Speak soon, H. Bye.” And then all pretences are abandoned as she does some strange sort of half curtsy and backs out of the room.

Not five minutes later and Harry’s phone buzzes in his pocket. A text comes through from Gemma: _I now go by Gemima, please and thanks. Best. Night. Ever. Xxx_

“So…” Harry says, putting the kettle on and pulling out six of his very best teacups and placing them on his kitchen island. Stevie wanders around, tinkering with the knickknacks he has on display. “I didn’t know you were in London.”

Stevie looks up from his collection of vintage recipe books, smiling. “Yes, well.” She clasps her hands together at her front. “I am everywhere and I am nowhere. It’s easy to lose track.”

“Right…” Harry says, trying not to let his confusion show on his face. “That makes sense.”

“The short answer? London’s winter is far more romantic than California’s,” she says, “Wouldn’t you agree?” And her coven, who creep around Harry’s kitchen and dining room, also snooping, like strange cats of the night, make murmuring sounds of agreement.

“I suppose, so, yes.” Harry nods. “Never thought of it that way.”

“I am sorry for interrupting your evening, though,” she says just as Harry shakes his head and makes noises of disagreement. “I just felt… a calling to be here. Right now.”

Harry pours the hot water into each cup, looking up and giving her a questioning glance. “Well, it’s good to see you. M’glad you came.”

He serves the drinks, and the six women sidle up to the kitchen island, blowing away their respective cup’s steam. After a few quiet sips, Stevie puts hers down. It clatters gently against the marble top.

“I was hoping you might have some music for me,” she says with that signature Stevie spark in her eyes. “If only to brag to Mick that I heard it first.”

Harry still isn’t totally used to the fact that Stevie Nicks can waltz in and out of his life like an old friend or the Godmother he always wanted, of the Fairy variety most likely. He still isn’t used to the fact that she’s not only the sweetest woman not related to him, always there for a shoulder to cry on or to contemplate the meaning of life on earth, but that she also respects him as an artist. Wants to hear his music. Sometimes he still feels like a kid banging his head to the electric guitar in _The Chain_ in his parents living room. Sometimes he still feels like the 21-year-old who baked a carrot cake and took it to a Fleetwood Mac concert for Stevie’s birthday without ever having met her. Sometimes he still feels like a fresh-faced solo artist, duetting _Landslide_ with his idol, experiencing an ultimate career highlight at barely 23-years-old. So maybe she’s been a friend and confidant for years now, but she’s still _Stevie Fucking Nicks. And she wants to hear my record. Holy shit._

Harry beams wider than he has in days.

“Those dimples.” Stevie smiles back. “Boy, that smile is something else.” 

“I’ve actually got like, heaps of songs you can listen to.”

“Wonderful!” she claps her hands together. “What are we waiting for then? Ladies?”

It’s taken years for Harry to really adjust to the whole wealth thing, particularly when it comes with the outrageously swanky perks that it does. But one of the things he had to get over fairly quickly was the concept of a home studio. During the band, it wasn’t necessary, because Harry rarely wrote stuff for himself, and when he did, he had ample access to studio spaces in basically every city. Regardless, most of One Direction’s discography was recorded on the road, anyway, in hotel rooms with mattresses for sound booths. But once they went on hiatus, it became apparent very quickly that Harry needed access to equipment in his own house. Sometimes he’d wake up in the middle of the night with an idea and voice memos can only get him so far. So sometime back in 2016, halfway through writing his first solo album, Harry finally caved.

He commissioned the space to abut his study, and you have to walk through the old fashioned library to get to it. That’s where he, Stevie, and the coven have to go to hear his new stuff. On the way, Stevie stops, runs her hands against the spines of the old limited edition copies of Harry’s favourites, then keeps walking. It’s a calm, cosy sort of recording studio, with no flourishes, just the very basic necessities. Harry’s never had more than four people in it before, so it’s a little strange and definitely cramped with seven.

“There’s seventeen songs in total,” Harry begins, trying to disguise the nerves in his voice. He sits at the control desk, fiddling with the dials. “But I won’t bore you with-”

“Seventeen, what a magical number,” Stevie interjects, her accent pronouncing everything in such a whimsical manner. Harry never loved American accents. It took him years to warm up to them. But Stevie’s voice convinces him without hesitation. “Perfect. I’ll hear every one.” She nods curtly, looking between her friends for agreement. They murmur their approval.

“Oh,” Harry says, turning away to hide his crimson cheeks. He looks at the clock. It’s already half-past one, and listening to the songs alone will take them well over an hour. Something tells him that won’t be an issue for these women. “I’m… kind of tired, you sure you don’t need to be somewhere?”

Stevie frowns, looks to her friends, who exchange looks of bafflement. One of them checks the delicate vintage watch on her wrist. “It’s not even two yet!” she exclaims and the rest of them chuckle, relieved.

“You heard her, the night’s still young, H,” Stevie says encouragingly, smiling wide.

“Okay,” Harry agrees, feeling like perhaps the night is young, but clearly he isn’t. Or perhaps, if Stevie and her coven are anything to go by, age plays no role in the game of life at all.

What proceeds is roughly 90 minutes of pure nerves. He begins by introducing _Golden,_ trying, awkwardly, to explain his thought process. Stevie raises her hand to silence him and says (in that wonderful, mysterious Stevie way) that if the song is doing its job, she’ll be able to figure out what he’s talking about without him needing to explain. After that, Harry only introduces the name of the track and then sits in shy silence while six women absorb his voice, echoing around them. Between each song, there’s a pregnant pause, Stevie’s eyes closed and mouth an unreadable line. At first, Harry isn’t sure if she expects him to play the record from start to finish without interruption, but then she opens her eyes and smiles. After every song, Stevie gives her advice, asks him questions, like _Watermelon Sugar? Now, where the hell you get that name from?_ which makes him laugh. They spend fifteen minutes after that song just talking about being inspired by book titles.

Harry learns quickly that Stevie’s coven isn’t nearly as intimidating as he first thought, the five of them lounging around on cushions on the floor, swaying gently to his slower ballads or trying to join in under their breath when they’ve figured out the chorus. They’re giggly too, at Harry’s _I’m just an arrogant son of a bitch_ and the bizarre mouth sounds he’s doing in _Sunflower Volume 6_. He sees them in an entirely different light. They’re no longer menacing witches, but gentle old birds, with nothing but songs of praise for him.

“Oh, boy,” Stevie says after the final song, one he isn’t sure about called _30,000 Miles._ “H… I have to say, I’m a little verklempt.”

Thankfully, before Harry has a chance to look stupid and ask what the hell that means, one of her witches, Mabel, he thinks, supplies, “A person who is too emotional to speak. It’s Yiddish.”

“Oh, right, thanks.”

The room goes quiet again, and Harry has a sudden, completely out of character urge to chew his nails. He’s that nervous. He compensates by fiddling with the dials to keep his fingers busy.

“Harry,” Stevie finally says and Harry holds his breath. “You’ve really got something special here. The whole damned thing is magic, kid.”

Harry lets out a nervous, relieved laugh. He leans his elbow against the controls, placing his cheek in his palm. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Fuck no – excuse my language,” Stevie says, laughing herself now. She gets up out of her seat, turning in contemplation. “‘Course, it needs some work. It’s like a day before dawn. The glow is inevitable.”

Harry is speechless, in part because he’s not completely sure what she means, but mostly because he isn’t sure he’s ready to hear such earnest praise. He grins into his hands, trying not to give himself away fully. It’s impossible around Stevie, though.

“It’s your _Rumours_.”

“Shit, Stevie. You can’t say that to a man and expect him to live.”

Stevie, along with everyone else, chuckles ruefully. “I think you’ll be just fine.”

They’re the last two to leave the studio after Stevie’s coven have returned to the living room for another tea and some snacks which Harry told them to help themselves to. Stevie looks through Harry’s collection of books in the adjacent library, pulling out ones that spark her interest, reading the blurbs, and then putting them back.

“You’re welcome to borrow one,” Harry finally offers, after watching her from the doorway for a solid minute. His eyes are aching and it’s hard to keep them open. It’s way past his bedtime. But he’s not an idiot. He isn’t going to tell Stevie that he wants to turn in.

Stevie turns around, chuckles. “Oh, no, thank you. Just listening to your record, it makes me want to write. And a book title is always a good start.”

Harry shakes his head, smiling disbelievingly. The worst part is, the first person he thinks of, the only person he wants to go running to and tell that Stevie Nicks, his idol, told _him_ that his music inspired _her,_ is the exact person he cannot speak to at all. The moment he thinks of Louis, his face crumbles, and the moment, which should be beautiful and touching, turns sour. Stevie regards him, sees the devastation on his face, and slowly places whatever book she was admiring back on the shelf.

“All these love songs, H, they’re wonderful,” she says, walking toward him on her enormous platforms. “But I can see one more song in your eyes. Write that one.”

“I can’t.” Harry looks to his feet, suddenly self-conscious. “It hurts too much.”

“Honey, the best ones do.”

Suddenly, Harry isn’t sure they’re talking about music anymore. 

“How did you…” Harry begins, then silences himself, shaking his head.

“Go ahead, ask me,” Stevie encourages him, eyes open and accepting.

“It’s just – I don’t know how to…” Harry huffs. “What I mean is, with you and Lindsey Buckingham. I don’t know how you did it. Music, writing, touring…” He has flashes in his mind, of being beside Louis at every concert, singing to him alone, in front of thousands of people. How can he do that now? How can he ever face Louis again? “…the whole thing. For _years._ How the fuck did you do that?”

Stevie lets out a chortle. “Honestly, I don’t know. I mean, it’s arguable if we even really did. I can’t look at some of those early performances after we split.”

“ _You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you,”_ Harry quotes her song, _Silver Springs._ “I mean, that is some pretty heavy shit.”

Stevie chuckles, closing her eyes. “God, don’t quote me to myself.”

“I guess I don’t really mean how you _literally_ did it… I mean-”

“In my heart?” Stevie supplies, wistful. “I got by, by writing about it, singing about it, talking to my girlfriends about it. Make no mistake, it was hard. But it made me who I am.”

“You were kids,” Harry begins, holding his tongue from adding _like me and him._ “Weren’t you? When you met?”

Stevie nods with a far off look in her eyes. “I was… 17? 18?”

Harry tries to picture a teenage Stevie, and somehow, she’s a whimsical, witchy 72-year-old perpetually in his mind’s eye. It’s comforting, though, in a way. To know even the wisest people were young and stupid once. Will Harry one day look back at all of this with a fondness? Will he be able to look at Louis and accept that they were just a story that had to end eventually? He’s not sure if he wants time to cast a spell on him, like that. But maybe it bewitches everyone, in the end.

“We were always _so volatile_ ,” Stevie continues, narrowing her eyes. “Lindsey… I used to think he was a darling. I’d like to think he still is, but maybe that’s just the optimist in me.”

“When did you know? That it was really over?” Harry asks, trying to put this delicately. Stevie is so like him in many ways, but her personal life is personal. She’s still the biggest name in rock history and that comes with its fair share of rumours. Namely, that her and Lindsey Buckingham were on and off for so many years, that there’s no telling where they started and where they ended.

“The day his first child was born. I never wanted children of my own, but I felt it – that…” Stevie gestures intensely with her hands. “That devotion he had to his child. To his family. That’s when I knew.”

Harry’s heart sinks. He feels her pain, not just as a friend, but as his own.

“I know they say love and hate are a fine line, and they are, we certainly confused them too many times to count. But… something tells me this business with Louis is different from Lindsey and I.”

Harry soaks in her husky, wise words like a sponge and it isn’t until he’s fully absorbed them that he realises he never even mentioned Louis by name to Stevie, not once. “Wait, how did you know Louis –”

“I might be old, but Harry, I’m no fool.” She smiles, making Harry let out a soft laugh. “Harry, I know what you’re thinking.” She looks him directly in the eye, determined. “Maybe there’s some things we have in common, but that’s the human experience. We’re all just figuring it out. But your story isn’t mine.”

Later, after three more rounds of tea and biscuits, catching up on life and everything that comes with it, Harry is exhausted. The witches are, of course, in their prime. But when Harry does a big, jaw cracking yawn, he catches Stevie’s eyes and she seems to understand that it might be time for him to go to bed.

“Thank you for coming tonight, Stevie,” Harry says at the door, pulling away from yet another hug. He’s already hugged each and every one of her ladies, who patted his cheek or ruffled his hair affectionately. They walk ahead, out into the fresh morning air, the sound of the early birds singing and the sun already up, bright and blinding against the horizon. Right about now, people all around London are waking up to alarms, taking their dogs for a brisk walk or getting on the tube to work across town. Harry thinks he could sleep for the rest of the day and still not catch up on the night’s rest he missed. He wouldn’t change it for the world, though.

He squints, avoiding the sun that’s shining directly onto his face. Stevie is backlit against it, a golden halo around her small frame.

“I… I needed it. More than you know,” he tells her.

“Don’t mention it,” she says with a wave of her hand. She turns to leave, then looks back around, making a sound of realisation. “Oh, and H? Before I forget.” She lazily rifles through her enormous bag, which from the number of times Harry has spent in her company, he can only describe as a Mary Poppins-esque trickery. Everything but the kitchen sink fits in it. Finally, she withdraws a silky colourful scarf. “Here.” She hands it to him. “I was doing some spring cleaning, and this just spoke to me.” She looks at Harry with her unwavering, piercing brown-eyed gaze. “It told me it needed to meet you.”

Harry takes the slippery material in his fingers, watching the way the fabric changes colour under different lights. He almost expects it to shapeshift entirely into something new, it’s that magical. “Oh, Stevie… thank you. This is beautiful.”

She makes to leave again, but this time Harry stops her. “Stevie?” he asks, biting his lower lip. “How do you do it?” he asks, and she frowns slightly. “How do you… keep being you, even when it hurts?”

Stevie smiles sadly, putting a hand to her chest. “Honey, if I knew the answer to those kinds of questions, I could retire tomorrow. There’d be no point in singing about it anymore.” She grasps his arm, looking up at him through thick blonde lashes and overdrawn black eyeliner. “And what’d be the beauty in that?”

* * *

Stevie’s words return to him, on and off, over the next several days. Eventually, he resolves to do something about it. He has no intention to capitalise off his heartbreak right now. He doubts he can even write anything worthy of releasing, not when he’s too close to the pain, too blinded by it. But he has to do something productive with it or he may go completely mental. So he decides to take her advice: he’s going to write whatever song she saw in his eyes. Even if it kills him.

He invites Mitch over in the afternoon, a simple text that he wants to work on the album that gets a thumbs up from the American.

“Hey, man,” Mitch says upon arriving, hugging Harry with a gentle pat on his back. His hair is getting longer and he’s tied it back into a short ponytail. His moustache is impressive too, and in other circumstances, Harry would probably ask for tips. But instead, he just gives Mitch a lopsided sad smile. “How you been?”

“Eh.” Harry shrugs.“You know.”

“Yeah.” Mitch smiles sadly. He leaves it at that.

They make their way into Harry’s studio, Mitch making himself comfortable, pulling out his notebook and guitar.

“What’ve you got for me, Styles?”

“Just a melody and two words,” Harry says, more monotone than usual. If Mitch can sense his melancholia, he is doing his best to ignore it.

“Good start.” Mitch nods. “Hit me with it.”

Harry swallows, heavy, and then clicks play on the rough recording he made earlier in the day. It’s simple, stripped back. Just Harry playing the piano. It starts slow, and soothing, like a lullaby, before increasing in intensity. He imagines the final recording will have more complexity, more depth. But this is fine as it is and it builds slowly but surely.

“And the words?” Mitch asks when it’s over, face unreadable, as always.

Harry pulls out his notebook where the two words are underlined and circled. The same two that Stevie told him just days ago: _fine line._

“A fine line between…?”

“Love and hate,” Harry says quickly, and he doesn’t feel ashamed, because Mitch looks at him like he knows. Like he understands. “A fine line between… strangers and lovers. Best friends and enemies. Happiness and misery. Life and death. All of it.”

Mitch takes in Harry’s words, nodding slowly to himself. “Play the piano piece again?”

Harry does and watches as Mick joins in with his guitar, slowly building the intensity of the melody. He can picture it taking on a life of its own, Sarah at percussion and drums, Ny and Charlotte’s layered back-up vocals. Maybe even an epic, orchestral outro. Until then, it was just a few notes on a keyboard. Now, with Mitch here, it feels real.

They come up with the chorus first, off the back of Harry’s note, and sing it together.

> _We’ll be a fine line_
> 
> _We’ll be a fine line_
> 
> _We’ll be a fine line_

They interchange between singing and transcribing lyrics, tweaking the words to fit. But it isn’t until Harry returns to the first verse, and sings, “ _Put a price on emotion_ ,” that the song really begins to take shape. He reads the next line he has written down, “ _Looking for something to buy,”_ while Mitch smiles, playing the guitar. Harry feels his throat closing, finds it hard to sing what comes to mind next. It isn’t on the page, but it’s in his heart. _“You’ve got my devotion…”_ He stops, his cheeks heating up. Mitch stops strumming too, and the recorded ballad continues, muted in Harry’s ears. “Hate you sometimes,” he finally says, not even singing, almost under his breath.

It’s one of those rare moments in a session where Harry knows those are the final lyrics, knows that he wants everyone to hear them. So instead of allowing himself to wallow in the moment, knowing if he lets it in for even a second he’ll be a puddle of tears on the floor, he quickly clears his throat, restarts the piano recording and goes from the top. Mitch watches him, so concerned that he misses his cue. Once he’s caught up, Harry sings:

> _You’ve got my devotion_
> 
> _But man, I can hate you sometimes_

Harry thinks of what it means to truly love someone, for the good, the bad, the ugly. He thinks of all the shit Louis has put him through, but all the beauty, as well. He thinks, not for a second, would he take it back. All those years of grappling with those emotions, wishing at first that he could forget he ever met Louis, it hurt that much. He finally knows that he wouldn’t change it for the world. He loves Louis and he hates him, and everything else there is between those things, he feels all of it at once, because Louis is his _heart,_ his _home,_ and there’s no sentiment simpler or more complicated than that.

Mitch chimes in then, singing adlib:

> _I don’t want to fight you_
> 
> _And I don’t wanna sleep in the dirt_

Harry looks up at the lyrics, eyes imploring. Mitch, not saying anything more, rests his hand on Harry’s knee, reassuring. It’s a little awkward, just like Mitch, but it’s also comforting. It’s all that needs to be done or said, to show Harry that he isn’t alone. He’ll never be alone.

“Do you want to take a break?” Mitch asks in a quiet voice after they’ve written the second verse and polished up the first more succinctly. He’s avoiding Harry’s eyes, shyly looking to the floor.

“No, let’s go again from the top.”

“H,” Mitch says, and it’s the first time since he got here, hours ago, that he’s been reluctant to go along with Harry’s obvious charade.

“I’m fine, really,” Harry promises. It’s a quiet lie. Soft enough to be honest.

“You don’t have to be, though.”

Harry sucks in a breath, doesn’t allow himself to even entertain the idea. “C’mon, let’s go from the last verse.”

“Are you sure…?” Mitch asks and he looks nervous. He’s never been very good at comforting his friends, he’s so ill-equipped at it, but it’s endearing that he tries.

“I’m sure, man,” Harry says, voice much more gentle than before. He’d almost believe his own lie, too. “It’s all good.”

“Okay,” Mitch decides, eyes lingering on Harry a moment too long. Finally, he clears his throat and plays the notes, singing backup vocals as Harry chimes in with:

> _Test of my patience_
> 
> _There’s things that we’ll never know_
> 
> _You sunshine, you temptress_
> 
> _My hand’s at risk, I fold_

Harry forces the image of Louis’ face, distorted by emotion at every turn, at every moment Harry misread his love for hate, to the back of his mind. He does not think of their fight in the pool house, he does not think of their hands touching, mouths angry, of smile lines and aching hearts.

> _Crisp trepidation,_
> 
> _I’ll try to shake this soon_
> 
> _Spreading you open,_
> 
> _Is the only way of knowing you_

His voice wavers on those last lyrics and he blinks hard to force himself not to cry. To make up for it, he takes in a deep breath, and when he sings the chorus next, it’s with an emotion he wishes he never had to feel.

> _We’ll be a fine line_
> 
> _We’ll be a fine line_
> 
> _We’ll be a fine line_

But when the chorus should end, Harry keeps singing, repeating the words over and over, until his throat begins to hurt. Mitch, caught off guard, continues the guitar, strumming with increasing speed and intensity. It’s completely unprepared, the two of them, singing the chorus, again and again, each time more cathartic than the one before. They’re bellowing it by the end, and when Harry thinks he can’t sing it any longer, Mitch sings, loud and with surety: _We’ll be alright._

Harry looks at Mitch, who nods softly, and without thinking, he joins in:

> _We’ll be alright_
> 
> _We’ll be alright_
> 
> _We’ll be alright_

He hopes to God they’re right.

* * *

Harry’s mum calls nearly every night to check up on him and he does a good job of putting on a brave face. People keep texting him, those who know the more intimate details of the public relationship, asking if he’s okay. Niall fills in Liam, who simply sends a series of red hearts to Harry’s inbox. Niall himself gently nudges Harry with an invite out to the pub, but Harry assures him he’s fine. He lies every time. But mostly, he lies to himself. He gets up at 9am every morning, he does his routine walk around the Heath, he keeps himself busy, _so_ busy because he can’t afford a moment of stillness. And it works, for the most part. He doesn’t cry after those first few days, after the evening with Gemma and Stevie. He laughs, sometimes even, albeit the hollow kind, at funny scenes in movies or weird memes that Niall sends him to cheer him up. He sends them privately, of course, because the moment Niall and Liam caught wind of what had happened, the group chat went into hibernation. It all feels exactly like it did the first time they did this and Harry refuses to fall into a pit of despair as he did in 2016. He won’t survive it a second time around.

He quickly develops a habit of driving around aimlessly to keep his mind on something that isn’t Louis. On the days he’s too emotional to channel his heartbreak into music, or too exhausted to box it out into a punching bag, Harry drives. When he wakes up late and thinks, for a split second, that Louis shares the bed with him, he drives. When he knows he might cry or call Louis or anything else equally pathetic, he drives. He drives in the rain, during peak hour, sitting in stagnant traffic, happy for the distraction. Usually, he does this without any music, liking the quiet sound of the wheels on the road, particularly when it takes him out of London and onto dirt tracks and winding streets.

But today, after a solid period of false calm, Harry can’t stand the silence. It’s early in the morning in late January and Harry needs to drive. He’s itching with it: the need to leave, to get onto the motorway, drive fast enough that all his problems won’t catch up to him. He knows that isn’t how it works, though, and when the drive becomes stifling, he realises he’ll carry this pain with him everywhere. For as long as he lives, he’ll carry Louis in his heart. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

The sky is as gloomy as Harry feels and he almost wishes it would rain, wishes that mother nature would scream with thunder, just so he could know it was okay to cry too. Maybe if he could just fucking cry hard and long enough, he’d expel all the pain and heartbreak with it. Then maybe he’d be like Alice and the pool of tears in Wonderland. How absurd. How wonderful.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, except south, and he has a vague notion that Brighton might be nice in the rain. And then he thinks, achingly, that he’s never been there with Louis. There’s a mixture of relief and sadness that he feels, knowing he has to escape two hours out of London just to run away from any reminder of him. He supposes he should be thankful, to a degree. The first time he was in this situation, they were in so deep that everything reminded Harry of Louis. There wasn’t a city in the world they hadn’t been to together, shared a poignant moment together. It’s hard to feel thankful for anything right now, though.

Before he can overthink it, before he can hurt himself any further by replaying that moment on the bridge again, Harry turns the radio dial on for a distraction. He switches through channels of pop music and shouting radio hosts before stuttering across a familiar sound. He recognises the simple melody, a vague memory of Coldplay in the back of his mind. It must be a throwback radio station because this song has got to be nearly two decades old. The guitar plays softly, so familiar, but he can’t quite put a finger on it. Then it clicks _Green Eyes_ by Coldplay. He’s nostalgic for the old track and it manages to uplift him, just a fraction. That is until he realises a second too late that something is off-kilter.

The guitar solo finishes and Harry’s breath hitches in his throat. It’s not Chris Martin singing the lyrics. It’s Louis.

Quickly, Harry grasps the steering wheel with two hands. He isn’t about to die in a car accident over a little fright. His mother would kill him. Meanwhile, Louis croons over the radio, singing a song about somebody’s green eyes. Harry wants to switch channels immediately. He’s simply not strong enough to deal with this right now. But even though the thought is shouting in his head: _turn it off, turn it off, turn it the fuck off!_ Harry is frozen.

> _Green eyes_
> 
> _The spotlight shines upon you_
> 
> _And how could anybody deny you?_

Harry shakily breathes in and out, forcing himself to calm down. Louis’ voice is angelic, and worst of all, hypnotic. It hits Harry hard in the chest like a punch. It’s also as gentle as a feather light caress.

> _I came here with a load_
> 
> _And it feels so much lighter_
> 
> _Now I’ve met you_
> 
> _Honey, you should know_
> 
> _That I could never go on without you_
> 
> _Green eyes_

He zones out after that, throat dry and eyes fixed on the road. His mind is totally blank and he feels like he’s watching himself from above, wondering how the fuck he got to this place. The bleak country landscape rushes past on either side, lifeless trees and empty paddocks, the world turning outside the car window as if nothing has changed.

> _And honey you should know_
> 
> _That I could never go on without you_
> 
> _Green eyes_
> 
> _Green eyes_

Louis breathes heavily into the mic, the sound making the hairs on Harry’s arms stand on end. Then Louis sings the final lyrics with a vulnerability Harry has not heard from him in a long time.

> _Honey you are the rock_
> 
> _Upon which I stand_

As the song fades to finish, Harry braces himself.

“That was a brilliant cover of Coldplay’s _Green Eyes_ sung to us live in the studio by Louis Tomlinson,” Nick says over the radio. “If you’re just tuning in now, Louis joins us this morning on the breakfast show. Morning, Louis!”

“Mornin’, mate,” Louis says, cheery voice echoing through Harry’s car. He thinks he might be sick, but with a twisted self-voyeurism, he can’t turn the station off.

“How are ya?”

“Look, I’ll be honest lad, this is way too early for me usual wake up,” Louis says, breathy and casual and just perfect, like always. “But, other than that, I’m excellent, mate, excellent.”

Nick chuckles. “You’ve never been much of a morning person, have you? Appreciate you being here so early.”

“Cheers, lad, cheers.” Louis’ voice comes soft and raspy across the airwaves and Harry grips the wheel all the tighter. If he could, he would close his eyes, suspend himself in the moment, and pretend Louis is right here in the car with him.

“Now, your debut album _Walls_ comes out at the end of the month,” Nick continues, and Louis murmurs quietly in agreement. “You must be buzzing. Tell me what that’s been like for you?”

“Er, it’s been pretty mad, obviously, the whole process,” Louis begins, and Harry can practically see him nodding his head, doing that small frown to himself as he thinks. “Y’know, like, obviously it’s been different without the boys, they’re all doing their own thing, as well, like.” Louis clears his throat. “But proper fun, yeah, yeah.”

“We actually had Harry into the studio just the other month,” Nick says, and by the tone of his voice, he is completely clueless. Harry holds his breath, nearly feels Louis doing the exact same thing halfway across the city in BBC Radio 1. “I take it he’s very proud? He heard the music already or will Mr Styles be tuning in like the rest of us on January 31st?”

Louis makes a noise of contemplation. “He’s heard some of it, yeah, yeah. Not the whole thing. Gotta keep some of it a surprise, eh?”

Although Harry can hear the falseness in Louis’ tone, what he’s saying isn’t actually a lie. Harry had the privilege of hearing most of _Walls_ early, before… Well, Before. He remembers welling up when Louis played _Always You_. Louis told him that song was old, he’d written it during their break up, years before. When Harry heard _We Made It,_ he’d been too shy to ask if it was about them. He knows now, it was. Even if the song no longer reflects the truth.

“I bet Harry hated that. Impatient bastard,” Nick teases, cackling into the mic. Louis laughs rather convincingly, but Harry can tell it’s forced. “You’re actually gonna play one of the tracks for us next. A worldwide exclusive, feeling proper chuffed about this.” You can practically hear the grin in Nick’s voice and Louis laughs softly. “Anything you want to say about this one, Louis?”

“Oh, er, put me on the spot there, Grimmy.” Louis gives a dry laugh and Harry nearly winces. He gives a drawn-out ‘uhm’ sound, pausing longer than normally permitted on live radio before he speaks again. He lets out a puff of air. “Oh, look, lad,” he says, voice rising conversationally. “All of me stuff comes from the heart. It’s basically just, uh, well,” he fumbles a bit, sounding awkward and on-edge. “It’s about meeting the love of your life when you’re both just kids and not really understanding it. Not being ready for it. Yeah.”

“Wonderful. This is _Too Young._ Take a listen.”

Harry knows the moment the song starts, that he hasn’t heard this one before. The second Louis’ voice comes through the speakers again, Harry makes the split-second decision to pull off the main road he’s currently on and drive down a narrow street in the hopes that he can pull over.

> _I've been looking back a lot lately_
> 
> _Me and you is all I've ever known_

He has no fucking clue where he is. He doesn’t recognise any of the road signs, any of the landscape. He’s driven the last ten minutes on complete autopilot, totally distracted by Louis’ radio interview.

> _It’s hard to think you could ever hate me_
> 
> _But everything's feeling different now_

Harry parks the car abruptly, nearly driving into a deteriorated old wooden fence in the process. He’s just sitting in his idling car on this muddy patch of grass off the side of the road, staring at a bunch of cows grazing on the other side of the fence, rain spitting pitifully on the car window. 

> _Oh, I can't believe I gave in to the pressure_
> 
> _When they said a love like this would never last_

Harry closes his eyes, lip wobbling and hands shaking. Louis is singing the words Harry told him, all those years ago, in the fight that was the beginning of the end. That desperate moment when Harry was so scared that everyone was right – that a love like theirs simply couldn’t endure. He was so afraid that they were naïve, that they were committing to something they couldn’t be sure they would want forever, not really, not when everybody knows first loves end. He didn’t give them the chance to find out. Louis didn’t give them the chance, either.

> _So I cut you off 'cause I didn't know no better_
> 
> _Now I realize, yeah, I realize…_

Harry brings his arms off the wheel and against his chest, wanting to comfort himself, grasping his own body like a lifeline. He can feel his own face heating up, preparing to cry, and he thinks to stop it, to blink it away, but for once he doesn’t. 

The pain of Louis’ words is heavy in Harry’s chest, a burden he doesn’t want to carry anymore, but that he has no way of unloading. He feels, above everything else, so completely small. Smaller than he’s ever felt. Like he could just curl up and disappear if he tried hard enough.

At some point, without registering it, the spitting rain has turned into a full downpour. Sheets of it fall upon the car, obscuring the view of the paddock outside, hitting against the roof in loud, tinny splats.

He isn’t prepared for what Louis sings next.

> _We were too young to know we had everything_
> 
> _Too young, I wish I could've seen it all along_

He wants to cry with the simplicity of it. Of loving Louis without consequence. Of being young and stupid and getting it wrong. How can Louis sing so candidly of these mistakes when they still hold such power over them both? Their mistakes haunt them. They’re the reason Louis walked away for good.

> _I'm sorry that I hurt you, darling, no,_
> 
> _We were too young_

The song continues, but Harry can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears, the blur of tears in his eyes. The surge of emotion fills his whole chest and he clutches at it as if his heart is physically wounded. He begins to cry in earnest, short, shaky, and hiccupping at first, but which quickly escalates to something louder, more anguished. Eyes scrunched shut, face wet and contorted with despair, Harry cries against the sound of Louis’ voice and the torrential rainfall.

When the song finally ends, Harry turns off the station, cuts the engine, and slumps down against the steering wheel. He cries and he cries, gasping for desperate breaths between sobs. Every time he thinks he has a handle on it, a thought triggers him again. He sees Louis’ face in his mind and he’s broken anew. 

The rain stops and a cow moos disgruntled, startling Harry. He looks up, sees the creature pressed up against the fence, trying to get closer to the car. It’s big, beautiful brown eyes blink at him serenely. Harry’s own eyes are stinging and his face aches, feels swollen. There’s snot running down into his mouth and his neck feels wet from the tears. He is a complete mess.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, a pathetic hand raised in gesture to the cow. The cow blinks back, one of its ears twitching. When he realises he just apologised to a cow for crying too loudly, he frowns to himself. Things are even more dire than he thought. He and the cow stare at one another for the longest time, and Harry feels a strange sense of being seen, truly _seen_ by this creature who does not know him, does not speak his language, but somehow feels his pain. Do cows experience heartbreak? Or are things far simpler for them? What he wouldn’t give to graze among the paddocks, sleep under the stars and frolic in the sun. 

“You lot mate for life, don’t you?” He sniffles, wiping the snot off his chin, and out of his mouth. He remembers reading up on the species back in school, during a fleeting fancy of becoming a farmer. At the time, choosing someone for life seemed easy. Expected. Inevitable. He didn’t know any better. “Lucky bastards.” 

With a final huff, Harry waves goodbye to his new cow friend and reverses out of the muddy ditch. The cow lingers, watching Harry’s car move away. From the rearview of his mirror, Harry watches the cow, looking somewhat disgruntled as it rejoins its herd.

It rains, and it rains. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun writing this chapter. Especially the Stevie parts. Like. So much. Hope it was enjoyable to read!
> 
> ★ Harry likes [The Notebook](https://hellogiggles.com/lifestyle/ryan-gosling-best-response-to-hearing-harry-styles-heart-raced/)  
> ★ Stevie Nicks and her ‘coven’ [did, in fact, ](https://harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/619632788481753088/hampsteadharry-harry-on-playing-his-album-to) come to Harry’s house as described in the fic.  
> ★ You can read a timeline of Stevie and Harry's very beautiful friendship [here](https://www.eonline.com/news/1155809/a-look-at-harry-styles-special-bond-with-stevie-nicks)  
> ★ Stevie did call Harry’s album his version of [Rumours](https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/stevie-nicks-harry-styles-coronavirus-letter-971517/) which was Fleetwood Mac's most successful album.  
> ★ Harry showed Stevie 17 songs, and we know that she liked some that never ended up on the album. There’s hints to these songs in [this photo](https://66.media.tumblr.com/7f7ce4e178105396df92331594c8560f/16cbf874b68a1438-91/s1280x1920/eff82d3b9fb1c1c2a8933e336439b66ba9887d71.png) but some of these may simply be existing songs under different names.  
> ★ The random tidbits about how Stevie writes music was [researched](https://ew.com/article/2009/03/31/stevie-nicks-in/)!  
> ★ All the things mentioned about Stevie Nicks and ex-bandmate Lindsey Buckingham are based on [real](http://www.mtv.com/news/1609042/fleetwood-macs-stevie-nicks-dishes-on-her-relationship-with-lindsey-buckingam/) [interviews](https://www.vanityfair.com/style/2018/04/the-stevie-nicks-lindsey-buckingham-feud-is-somehow-still-going). I kind of went down a rabbit hole and now I am so incredibly fascinated by them. Anyway.  
> ★ The song Harry quotes is Silver Springs (I recommend [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eDwi-8n054s) performance of it).  
> ★ Harry is writing [Fine Line](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ojp71GGm-LQ). He’s also stated that he writes most of his music with Mitch Rowland.  
> ★ Louis' songs off of Walls such as We Made It (Don't get me started on the symbolism of the music video) and Too Young are clearly written about him and Harry. There's also a shit tonne of parallels between Walls and Fine Line and Harry's first album like [this](https://matchingbees.tumblr.com/post/190366729628/walls-lights-up-parallels), [ this](https://womanwiththeredrose.tumblr.com/post/187730110977/hlsource-harrys-and-louis-lyrics-parallels?is_related_post=1),[ this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYonKQC2kVM&feature=youtu.be), and [this](https://lairport.tumblr.com/post/618368044804292608/lickboo-walls-x-fine-line-parallels)  
> ★ Cows do not mate for life... sorry !!! Suspend disbelief!!!


	14. Dogs Make The Best Wingmen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally here! The last chapter!!!!! Enjoy :)

Harry watches the grey sky outside Electric Cinema, wondering if it’s going to rain again. It’s a dreary day in Notting Hill, fewer people idling on the street, though enough have to dodge the line of people waiting in line for concession. Across the street, Oxfam Books, Café Nero, and the French gift shop chain store, Pylones. In front of him, Mitch and Sarah talk among themselves beneath the domineering _Now Showing_ sign. Someone must have gotten up on a ladder to spell out in block letters by hand the single film showing for the day: _Little Women._

When his phone buzzes in his pocket, Harry reluctantly pulls it out. Another call from his manager. It’s been two weeks since the meeting with One Direction’s team. Two weeks since Louis walked out of Harry’s life for good. But Jane, sweet, well-meaning Jane, has no idea about that part. She had, along with the rest of the execs, given Harry and Louis plenty of time to come to a conclusion on what they wanted to do about a staged public break up. It’s not their fault that Harry and Louis made a mess of things. Still, he’s not ready to face Jane right now. Answering Jane’s call would make it more real than he’s willing to admit. He’d have to actually come up with an answer, and things would be put in motion. The longer he can put off talking about it altogether, the better.

Harry looks down at his ringing phone for a full three seconds before hitting the big red decline button. Mitch and Sarah turn around, looking at Harry’s phone, and then up at Harry himself. 

“Who was that?” Sarah asks, just as the line moves forward. The three of them shuffle forward to accommodate.

“Oh, just Jane,” Harry says with a shrug, shoving his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Been avoiding her calls all week. Don’t want to confront the whole… fake break up real break up thing.”

Sarah gives him a sympathetic look, and Mitch’s face, which is mostly unreadable, appears grim. “You’re going to have to, sooner or later, you know that, right?” 

Harry opens his mouth, instinctively wanting to rebuff before quickly closing it again. He looks off, watches someone skip across the road between cars. He counts to five slowly in his head, forcing the emotions away. Ever since his meltdown in the car a few days ago, he’s had no control over his emotions. He wells up at nearly anything. But he’s in public and he just wants to have a nice movie date with his best friends.

“We really should have booked our tickets online,” he says instead, puffing up his chest and trying to appear composed. He looks back at Mitch and Sarah, who both look at him with an edge of frustration in their expressions. He cranes his neck, looking to the dozen or so people in line ahead of them, pretending he doesn’t notice their annoyance. “But then again, I thought a midday session would be empty.”

“It’s the last showing for the film,” Sarah says, exasperated. “So I guess other people had the same idea.” She purses her lips, seeming to deliberate whether or not to press him on the forbidden topic. While she thinks, the line moves up. “We’re really early, though. We’ve got plenty of time.”

There’s a pregnant pause. The trio has spent so much time together by now that a little silence is usually comforting. Especially considering both Mitch and Sarah aren’t nearly as chatty as Harry is. He’s gotten used to just being in their presence without feeling the need to talk. This, however, is not one of those moments. This silence is awkward and stifling.

Finally, Mitch and Sarah turn to face the front of the line again. Harry lets out a sigh of relief. 

“I’m really glad I’m finally seeing this,” Harry answers, deflecting with false cheeriness. “I loved the Winona Ryder one as a kid.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah suddenly says, whipping around, looking determined. “I just can’t pretend like you can. We _have_ to talk about this.”

Harry lets out a sigh. He could almost predict that this was going to happen. He looks to Mitch for support, but the man dodges his eyeline, staring at his own feet.

“What’s there to talk about, Sare? He left me. The end.” 

“I just don’t get it,” Sarah says, getting more animated.

The line moves up and now they’re inside the entrance of the cinema. It’s small but beautifully ornate, complete with original early 1900s fixtures and details. The foyer has been immaculately maintained, warm wall sconces filling the space with a yellow glow, accented by plush red velvet curtains. Harry feels like he’s stepped back in time, the modern jeans and sneakers of fellow moviegoers completely out of place while stepping onto the marbled decorative flooring.

Harry’s reverie is broken by Sarah’s pointed stare.

“What?” he asks. 

“I said, did you even tell him you love him?”

“… No,” he admits. “I mean, not in so many words… but it was pretty obvious.”

Sarah deflates at this news. “You’re useless.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference! You should’ve seen him. He was so…” He sighs, eyes going glassy for a moment as his mind travels back to the moment on the bridge. He snaps out of it, agitated now. He frowns, speaking low, “I’m not talking about this in the cinema.” 

Sarah matches his quieter volume. “Surely it isn’t a lost cause. What you had was–"

“I’m aware of what we had. And it’s gone. So let’s just–"

“Three tickets to _Little Women_ , thanks,” Mitch tells the Box Office clerk, silencing Harry and Sarah instantly. Neither of them had even noticed they’d made their way to the front of the queue, and when Harry makes eye contact with the teenager behind the glass, a wave of embarrassment rushes over him. He accepts his ticket shamefully and follows Mitch and Sarah toward the entrance. 

The doorway opens out into an expansive, regal auditorium. The rows of chestnut red leather club chairs seem to go on forever, separated only by a small table per person, with their own elegant lamp. The curved ceiling is high and covered by intricate wainscoting painted red and gold. There’s even two massive chandeliers.

Harry looks down at his ticket in the dim lighting and then searches for row C. Following behind him, Mitch and Sarah’s feet pad softly on the deep red carpet. A gentle hum of murmured conversation fills the room as other patrons consult their tickets and find their respective seats.

“I’m gonna go get us some popcorn. You guys want anything else?” Harry asks once they’ve located their seats. He puts his jacket down to claim his seat as Sarah and Mitch get comfortable.

“Oh, just a packet of Maltesers for me, H,” Sarah says and Mitch shakes his head, no.

In the line for the snack bar, Harry’s phone buzzes again. Expecting another call from Jane, he reluctantly pulls it out of his back pocket. Surprisingly, it isn’t a phone call, but a text from Niall.

> _did u speak to louis yet ?_

Harry frowns down at it, trying to wrack his brains for what Niall could be referring to. He resolves that Niall, like Sarah, is trying to intervene. He shakes his head and decides he should turn his phone off now for the film anyway.

Back in the cinema, Harry settles next to Sarah, who looks up from her conversation with Mitch the moment he walks in. Harry relaxes back into the comfort of the worn leather and the outlook that all thoughts of Louis must remain back outside and on the street, to be dealt with after the credits roll.

The ads have already begun and Harry zones out as images flash over the screen from the French film festival coming up to a close up of a woman eating a Magnum ice cream in slow motion. He vacantly holds out his bucket of popcorn for Sarah and Mitch to take a handful. 

“Maybe if you just _talked_ to each other…” Sarah offers more gently this time, eyes imploring. She does this while quietly and slowly trying to rip open her bag of Maltesers. Harry huffs dramatically, giving her a glare. Mitch looks increasingly uncomfortable, staring at them both with a handful of popcorn.

Harry knows she’s just trying to help, but indulging any idea that he can fix this is simply too painful. Too delusional.

“I have to respect his wishes. He’s just…” Harry trails off, mouth still full of popcorn. He chews quickly, Sarah waiting for him patiently, still trying to open her snack. Besides her, Mitch faces forward, intentionally ignoring their conversation. The light of the screen highlights the firm set of his jaw. “He’s just trying to protect himself, and I’ve already hurt him so much.” He pauses, contemplating. Even if he doesn’t agree with it, he has to understand that Louis can’t handle it again. It isn’t Harry’s place to decide what Louis can and can’t deal with. Harry has to accept that maybe he isn’t worth the risk for Louis. “Oh, just give me it,” he says under his breath, taking Sarah’s Maltesers and ripping the bag open in one tug. “I should just let him go.”

“Bullshit.”

Harry blanches because the words don’t come from Sarah. They come from Mitch. He leans across and is met with Mitch’s stony-eyed expression. The cinema lights dim, prompting the lowered murmurs of everyone else around them.

“What?” Harry asks, oblivious to the fact that the room is now pitch black and the heavy velvet curtains are sliding slowly to reveal the full screen.

“I said, fucking bullshit,” Mitch replies, American accent making the words sound harsher than they might have. “There’s nothing more stupid than that.”

“Mitch…” Sarah begins, looking just as dumbfounded as Harry feels. She soundlessly brings a handful of Maltesers to her open mouth. Someone shushes them half-heartedly, but the three of them ignore it. The sound of the Columbia Pictures intro fills the room, the draped lady holding a torch privy to their argument.

“No, Sare,” Mitch glares, lowering his voice for the benefit of those around them. “I’m sick of seeing him mope around when he doesn’t have to.”

“Yes, but –"

“What exactly are you trying to say, Mitch?” Harry interjects, and Sarah gapes, her words dying on her lips.

“I’m _saying_ ,” Mitch continues at a whisper, more aware than Harry and Sarah are to the glares of those sitting behind them. “From where I’m standing, it just sounds like Louis is scared, same as you. That isn’t worth ruining everything over.”

“It’s not up to me, it’s–“

“When has that ever stopped you?” Mitch exclaims, laughing almost. A pair of elderly women sitting in front of them turn around and glare before turning back around to the film with a loud tutter, making their disapproval known. He leans forward, right into Sarah’s space, and makes sure to speak much lower this time. “Look. The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. One, you keep doing what you’re doing, convincing yourself that this whole thing is a good idea, spend the rest of your life pining after the one that got away or you can actually wake the fuck up and do something about it.”

Harry stares at Mitch, stunned. He can feel that his heart has begun to beat faster than usual. Between them, Sarah nervously darts her eyes from Mitch to Harry, to the screen. In front of them, the film has well and truly started. Saoirse Ronan is sitting in front of a balding man with enormous white sideburns, watching her manuscript pages be crossed out vigorously. The scene is virtually silent and so every word from Harry and Mitch carries throughout the cinema, causing a wave of people to turn and crane their necks, searching for the culprit.

“How many people get a second chance at love like this, huh? For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been as happy as you were with Louis. And I don’t know him well, but my guess is it’s the same for him, too. I mean, _Jesus_ , you fell in love with the guy twice. What more proof do you need that this is worth fighting for?”

“He thinks it isn’t worth fighting for,” Harry replies, though his resolve is crumbling under Mitch’s argument. His mouth feels dry and his hands are going clammy. “He thinks _I’m_ …”

Someone three rows down turns and violently shushes them, but Mitch isn’t deterred.

“So prove him wrong! You haven’t even tried, man. At least fucking _try._ Otherwise, you’ll be sitting around in fifteen years and you’ll suddenly realise you wasted the chance when you had it.”

Harry absorbs Mitch’s words. His brain has gone fuzzy and he doesn’t quite feel present like he’s floating off someplace else. On the screen, Saoirse Ronan runs excitedly through a crowd of people over a cheerful piano score. It could not be more contrasting with Harry’s feelings right now.

“Well?” Mitch prompts, eyebrows raised. “What do you think?”

“I think that’s the most amount of words I’ve ever heard you speak, Mitch,” Harry says.

Harry looks to Sarah and she gulps before saying under her breath, “I’m going to have to agree with this one.” She gives a wane smile and pats her boyfriend’s arm haphazardly.

“Would you lot shut your bloody mouths or bugger off?” A bellowing voice comes from a few rows up. Harry jumps and turns around to see a big, bearded man glowering at them. Those around him are staring at the commotion, embarrassed. Still, others murmur or nod their heads in quiet agreement with the man. “ _Some_ of us are actually here to watch the film!”

Harry, Sarah, and Mitch still, with the slouching body language of reprimanded naughty school children. They look around to find that they’ve acquired an audience of their own and a very disgruntled one at that.

“Sorry,” Harry says with a blush, trying to make himself shrink in the chair. He’s genuinely regretful for their interruption. Sarah and Mitch mumble something similar. With that, their heated conversation is effectively over.

While the film plays, Harry watches. without absorbing anything going on. Inexplicably, his mind takes him back in time four years. While Florence Pugh as Amy March talks to Meryl Streep in a carriage in France, Harry is back in his old house, the one he shared with Louis. He ruminates in the body of his 22-year-old self, trying to make sense of the path it led him on. He feels his old anxieties, the way he let it consume him. He lives in the body of mistrust. He sits in miscommunication, anger, and frustration. His mind’s eye shows him Louis’ defeated face, walking out the door, leaving Harry for good. And Harry just let him. For years, he regretted not trying harder to make Louis stay. Why the hell is he so willing to make the same mistake now?

He knows the story of _Little Women_. He’s read the book, seen the 90s adaption too many times to count. He knows Amy sees Laurie for the first time in years, knows that she still loves him. The smile on her face says it all. He watches the screen as Amy shouts for Laurie’s attention, delighted when he turns around and recognises her. She runs, head to toe in an extravagant duck egg blue dress, straight into Timothée Chalamet’s arms. 

Harry and Louis were good. They were so good. And at some point, they lost their way. But those mistakes don’t have to define them. The last several months have proven that. Harry spent so many years thinking that their relationship suffered irreparable damage, that he never allowed himself a moment to consider nothing is ever unfixable. Not really. Not where Louis is concerned.

History doesn’t always have to repeat itself. Not now. Not this time.

“Fuck,” Harry says to himself, barely audible. He’s staring without seeing, frozen in time. He leans forward, looking at Sarah and Mitch. “Wait, so you think I should call him?”

The aisle around him collectively groan, all turning to stare at the man who once again has interrupted their viewing. Mitch and Sarah groan dramatically too, but for entirely different reasons. Harry grimaces, mouthing _sorry_ to whoever will make eye contact with him.

“No, you tit!” Sarah hisses under her breath, leaning in to whisper in Harry’s ear, “Have you learnt nothing from all those romantic comedies you love to watch?”

“Okay,” Harry says, looking between Mitch and Sarah, who blink expectantly back at him. He swallows hard. “Well, shit. Um. I have to go.”

“We’ll drive you,” Sarah says, grabbing his arm to prevent him from leaving without them. “Then you don’t have to find a park and waste valuable time. Besides, I want to see this.”

With that, the trio is up and out of their seats, heading for the glowing exit sign. The adrenaline rushes through Harry’s body, and his heart is pumping so hard he feels dizzy with it. He swears that as he crouches over and tries to crawl through the aisle, knocking into people’s knees and stepping on a few toes, that he hears someone distantly ask “is that Harry Styles?” He doesn’t stick around long enough to find out.

They practically run the five-minute walk back to Sarah and Mitch’s, and by the time they’ve climbed into the car – Harry in the back, Sarah in the front, Mitch driving – they’re panting like they’ve run a marathon.

“Where to?” Mitch asks, pulling out into the street.

“Number nine, Mapledene Road, Hackney. Yellow door. Can’t miss it.”

“This is sort of exhilarating,” Sarah says after a prolonged, tense silence. “I’ve never been a part of a grand romantic gesture before.”

Thankfully, they’re already making good time; midday midweek has left the streets of London empty. They’re out of Notting Hill at least, but the drive is another half-hour from here if they’re lucky. Now that Harry has accepted his fate, has decided to fight for Louis, he can’t get to him quick enough. It’s like before now he was asleep and now he’s wide awake.

“I think you’re kind of freaking H out a bit, Sare,” Mitch says tactfully, eyeing Harry through the rearview mirror. “You okay back there, buddy?”

“Oh, you know,” Harry answers with false confidence, smile faltering. “Just my entire love life on the line.” A strangled, deranged sort of bark of laughter comes out of him without warning. “Another average day.” 

Sarah and Mitch are quiet for a second and then they’re laughing too. Harry joins in, not totally sure why, because right now nothing could be less humorous. But it feels good, in a weird way; to laugh in the face of something that scares him. Like maybe it takes away some of its power.

The London cityscape whips by outside Harry’s window. In the time it takes to pass through the heart of the city on the A501, past Regent’s Park and King’s Cross, Harry has managed to quietly and nervously chip nearly all the nail polish off all ten of his fingers. In the front, Mitch and Sarah half-heartedly bicker over which turns to take, Sarah reminding Mitch that she’s the one who’s lived in London for ten years, while Mitch assures her it doesn’t matter because _I recognise that weird bar up ahead, it’s this way._

It’s only when Harry begins to recognise the surroundings as memories with Louis throughout Hackney does reality sink in properly. They drive right past Columbia Road and over the canals, places he and Louis spent lazy weekends, ate indulgent brunches, shared lovesick smiles. Harry thinks he might be ill from the flood of memories, a sweeping surging feeling in the very core of his being. He’s never needed something to work out so badly in his whole life. Not ever.

Once they’re on Queensbridge Road, Harry knows he’s run out of time to hesitate, run out of time to procrastinate in what he’s about to do. He’s both nervous and excited.

“Just take deep breaths,” Sarah says, fully swivelled around in the front seat so that she’s facing Harry now. The car is idling at the corner of Queensborough and Mapledene, not 500 meters away from Louis’ front door. “Whatever happens, we’ll be here. Okay?”

“To pick up the pieces of my twice-broken heart?” Harry asks sceptically.

“Always,” Sarah says, and her hand reaches out across the centre console and grasps Harry’s shaking one. “ _Whatever happens_. Yeah?”

Harry squeezes her hand in return and smiles nervously.

Mitch turns as best as he can without compromising his focus in the driver seat and stretches out his hand to rest atop Sarah and Harry’s. The three of them sit like that, their hands clasped in the middle, Harry’s future riding on everything.

“Yeah. Okay,” he finally says.

“We’ll park somewhere nearby,” Mitch offers, turning back to face the front. He looks at Harry through the rearview mirror again.

“No, no. It’s okay,” Harry assures them, shaking out his limbs, trying to loosen the bundle of nerves in his fingertips, running through his veins. “I… If it goes wrong, I’ll want to be alone, anyway.”

“If you’re sure,” Sarah says, hugging herself, looking fretful.

“Fuck.” Harry stares blankly for a second, then looks between his best friends.

“Go get him.” Mitch smiles.

Harry shoves his hands in the pockets of his patchwork knit cardigan, wondering why he chose the oversized designer red, green, yellow blanket of a thing over a proper winter coat. _Because I thought I would be in a warm cinema right now. Not outside Louis’ front door. Holy shit._ Regardless, he’s shivering, and the sky has darkened, gloomy and low cloud cover, threatening to cry down on him.

He climbs the steps outside number nine Mapledene road – the sunny, bright yellow front door daring him. He hesitates, a strong sense of déjà vu overpowering him. Four months ago, Harry stood at this very place, having no idea he was about to change the course of his life forever. He wonders what good it would have done to know back then what he knows now. He pictures himself, fresh out of an awkward first date, facing his past for the first time in years. That Harry would never believe it possible to fall for Louis again. That Harry would never believe he’d ever get that lucky. 

Harry stares so long he can see the strokes of the paintbrush on the wood, and he figures he’s used up all the time he can. He takes a shaky breath, counts to five, and reaches a quivering finger to ring the brass bell.

He braces himself for the familiar shrill, echoing barks of the dogs, for the clatter of big paws and claws running on floorboards… but it never comes. Not a sound comes from within.

One second. Two. Then Harry leans forward and presses the buzzer a second time. He can hear it ring throughout the empty house. Once again, nobody comes to the door. He deflates.

Harry chews at his lower lip, presses his face up to the glass panels on the side of the door. Louis’ long, sparse hallway is decidedly empty. He stays as still and quiet as possible, trying to hear out for a pad of footfalls on the stairs or the sound of a bathroom door opening. Perhaps Louis is watching from the upstairs bedroom, peeking down at Harry through curtains, watching him squirm, waiting him out. Just to quell his anxieties, Harry steps back off the front stoop, craning his neck skyward. Nobody looks back at him from the upstairs window. Inexplicably, he sighs a sigh of relief.

Wherever Louis is, he’s taken his dogs with him. _Maybe he just popped out to the shops?_ Harry asks himself, unsure whether to wait outside in the cold or call for clarification. _No. This cannot be done over the bloody phone._

Harry pulls out his phone instinctively, with the intention of texting Sarah and Mitch, or at the very least check the time. Then he realises as he stares at the unresponsive black screen that he turned it off for the movie. He huffs, shoving it back in his pocket, uninterested in turning it back on.

He looks around him – left and right of the street devoid of people. Who knows where Louis might be or how long he might take to get back home. At this point, most of his adrenaline is dying in his belly, but his nerves are at an all time high. At the very least, he needs to sit down, just to compose himself.

He slumps on the last rung of the concrete stairs to Louis’ front door, his long legs drawn in close, the texture of the brown corduroy of his pants massaging the palm of his hands as he slides them up and down his legs. He stares down at his dirty Vans, at the crack in the sidewalk where a trail of ants crawl over and under the sprouts of grass growing unruly there.

His heart slowly returns to regular pace with each passing minute and no Louis Tomlinson. Eventually, without a real sense of how long he’s been waiting, he decides reluctantly that he should come back another day.

“So much for a grand romantic gesture,” he mumbles to himself as he stands back up, dusting the pebbles and dirt off his bum. “They don’t show this part in the movies.”

Harry, sort of defeated, walks the full length of Mapledene, past identical sandy brick terraces, some with crawling ivy, others with decorative hedges. Each time he thinks he might start walking toward Haggerston Station or Dalton Junction, get on the tube to Hampstead, he finds himself taking a wrong turn. He doesn’t want to go home, not yet.

His feet carry him elsewhere, along Lansdowne drive and right to London Fields. When he sees the lush green park ahead, he feels a sense of belonging, as if he knew this entire time that his meandering walk would lead him here. He’s come out to the west side of the park, right by the Lido and the wildflower meadow. The endless rows of trees along the sidewalks and surrounding the perimeter of the park are bare, their knotted arms twisting into the sky. But the shrubbery and the lawn are flourishing, deep emerald green and bright yellow-green grass surrounding Harry.

Despite the gloom, Londoners are used to making the most of even the mildest afternoon. There’s a few joggers lining the outer pathway, people sitting on the grass, a couple nuzzled up together on one of the park benches. Harry passes a group of kids playing on the Cricket ground, squealing and laughing together. Someone rings their bell and makes Harry jump, cycling past with an apologetic wave. It might be fifteen degrees, but for them, it’s practically summer weather.

Admiring the scenery and drinking in the joy of those around him, Harry doesn’t hear the distant barks at first. Then they’re closer and louder – two distant and recognisable woofs. He knows that sound. Harry frowns, looking around him for any sign of dogs. It can’t possibly…

“Cliff!” a familiar voice shouts from afar, and Harry does a 180 turn to locate it. “You bloody nuisance! Come back here!”

For a moment Harry is sure he is dreaming. At the opposite end of the path, breaking into a half-walk half-run is Louis. Two leashes clasped in his fist, he wears a navy windbreaker and windswept hair. His denim jeans are rolled up at the hem. He looks beautiful. It knocks the air out of Harry just seeing him.

“No, not you too, Bruce!”

Cliff runs toward Harry at full pelt, tongue hanging out of his grinning jowls, barking excitedly. Not far behind, the blonde labradoodle trails, panting as he bounds after his best friend.

Honest to God, there’s a break in the clouds and the shy face of the sun peaks through, not so dark and gloomy and instead, bright and beautiful. And Harry is staring, blatantly staring, as Louis jogs after his dogs.

Harry sees the moment Louis spots him – his eyes go wide and he falters to a near standstill. But he recovers quickly, trying to catch up to his dogs in a slow jog. He’s too slow though – and Cliff and Bruce slam into Harry with such force that he almost knocks over.

“ _Oof,”_ he lets out, unable to stop the short laugh that escapes him. “Good to see you guys too,” he says, both dogs on their hind legs, digging their paws into Harry’s chest, hooking their claws into the knit of his coat. He pats them gingerly, their slobbery tongues leaving wet kisses across his hands. They’re sniffing him viciously, trying to figure out why he smells slightly different, why they haven’t seen him in so long. 

Preoccupied with the enthusiasm of the massive dogs, when Harry looks up again, Louis has slowed to a walk, hesitantly approaching.

“Harry?” Louis says, squinting almost. The sun is gaining strength and the whole of the park has brightened a shade or two. He stops just shy of two meters away from Harry, not too close, not too far. His expression is unreadable. “How are you here?”

“Uh,” is all Harry can say, and it comes out rough and low. He blinks, grappling with the weight of the dogs still grasping at him. He’s forgotten words. How to form them. Louis just stares inquisitively back. “I’m uh…” He finally frees himself from the dogs, who have just noticed Louis is there, and circle him happily.

“I was just…" Louis begins conversationally, leaning down and clipping the leashes to each dog’s collar. Harry chooses then for his brain to work.

“ _Ihavetotellyousomething_ ,” he blurts out in one breath.

Louis frowns. “Okay, but I was –”

“No, please, Louis,” Harry implores, showing his palm placatingly. “Just let me say this.”

Louis’ mouth shuts abruptly. He nods, a small amount, but enough for Harry to notice.

Harry sucks in a big breath and walks close enough to Louis that the difference in their heights is noticeable, close enough that if Harry was braver and if Louis let him, he could reach out and fix his fringe, smooth it out. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he swallows the lump in his throat, blinks slowly, and opens his mouth. 

“I love you,” he says with as much confidence and conviction as he can muster. “I didn’t say it before. I don’t know why. You said it and I was just… stunned. So I didn’t. But I’m telling you now.” He wrings his hands, afraid to look into Louis’ eyes, afraid of what he might find. He shouldn’t be though, because the second he manages to lock green to blue, all there is is love. Still, he needs to say this. “You were the first person I ever fell in love with. You’re the only person I ever want to fall in love with, for the rest of my life. And… and I’ve already done it twice, Louis. I’d do it again and again.”

Louis’ expression is pained and his body has gone completely still as if the slightest breeze could knock him off his feet. The dogs are doing laps around him, bickering with one another, straining against their leads. Louis doesn’t seem to care or notice, grasping their leashes firmly in his fist, his eyes fixed on Harry.

“And I think…” Harry continues. “A part of me will always love you - if we never see each other again, if I get married to someone else and have ten kids and… it’ll always be there, in the back of my head. And I’d be a fucking idiot not to tell you that.” He becomes aware that there’s people around them, that he’s making this dramatic declaration in the middle of the park, right on the path where everyone can see. But he doesn’t care. “When we broke up, it took me years to figure it out. I was so… angry. I spent way too much time being angry. I should never have let you leave. We finally got a second chance, Louis. I wanna take it. I _need_ to take it. And… well, you can walk away, if…” He pauses, voice all wobbly and thin. “If that’s the safest option for you. But I don’t know about you, but I’m so fucking sick of playing it safe.”

Afterwards, Harry’s shoulders sag, exhausted by the sheer force of emotion that came tumbling out of his mouth. He isn’t even sure that it was intelligible. But by the look on Louis’ face, he heard him, loud and clear. He understands what Harry said.

Louis clears his throat, quickly wiping away the ghost of a tear at his eyes.

“Can I talk now?” he asks, voice wobbly too. Harry nods minutely. “Why don’t you answer your fucking phone?”

Harry blinks, affronted. “W- wait, what?”

“I was at your house!” Louis exclaims, almost laughing.

Harry opens his mouth, closes it again, then says, “You were? When!”

“Half an hour ago, maybe longer? You weren’t home.”

“That’s when I was at _your_ house,” Harry says and notices a woman glowering between them for taking up the path, and then does a double-take when she realises who they are. Thankfully all she does is stare as she walks past. He couldn’t bear having to take a selfie with a fan right now.

“Yeah, because as I said, _I was at your house_ ,” Louis says, as if this is pointing out the obvious. It isn’t very obvious to Harry, though. In fact, he’s not sure he understands what’s going on at all. Louis watches Harry’s expression and jumps in quickly with, “I called you like five times. I think Niall might’ve tried you too.”

“Niall?” Harry asks, frowning now, remembering Niall’s unsolicited text from earlier. _Have you talked to Louis yet?_ “My phone was off because…” He’s staring off, then whips up, eyes boring into Louis’, “Wait – with the dogs?”

“Well, yeah.” Louis blushes, avoiding Harry’s eyes. He looks down to Cliff and Bruce who have calmed down considerably after that first spotting of Harry. Now they’re sitting at Louis’ feet, politely wagging their tails. “Dogs make the best wingmen.”

Harry laughs disbelievingly. His mind is racing with this new information. At the same time that Harry was trying to find Louis, Louis was trying to find Harry. He can’t help the thrill that floods over him at the image of Louis showing up at his door, breathless, with two dogs and a timid smile. Quietly hopeful, Harry tries to suppress his smile, tries to quell his own excitement. Just because Louis wanted to talk to Harry doesn’t mean what he wants it to mean. _Breathe. Calm down._

“But then you weren’t there,” Louis continues, scratching the back of his neck. “So I came home, but these two were driving me fuckin’ mental – haven’t walked them today, so we came here first.” 

Harry waits for a beat. “I’m sort of confused.”

Louis laughs. “Me too.”

“Should we, er…?” Harry says, waving vaguely toward the nearest park bench nestled amongst the grassland.

“Good idea.” Louis nods, and gives two swift tugs on the leashes for the dogs to stand up promptly.

Harry doesn’t waste time, moves off the path and makes his way to the bench in a few quick strides. Louis is not far behind, chewing at his lip, looking nervous. Harry has no idea what it means. He hasn’t actually acknowledged anything that Harry said. _Is that a bad sign? Fuck. I don’t know._

“So… you went to my house…?” Harry prompts, eyebrow arched.

“I, er, well, yes,” Louis begins, stumbling over his words as Harry slumps into the chair. He loops Cliff and Bruce’s leashes around the cast iron armrests, securing them with a messy knot. He stands there a second, looking distant, and a little giddy. He can’t seem to suppress a smile. It’s torturous – this not knowing. Harry keeps bouncing his legs, just anxious to get it over with.

Louis clears his throat, slowly sitting down next to Harry at the very opposite of the bench. For a moment Harry’s heart clenches with worry, but then Louis, sheepishly smiling to himself, slides across the bench and up against Harry’s side. Harry’s skin tingles where Louis’ thigh touches his, hip to hip. A smile slowly creeps up on him too, dimples threatening to give himself away completely. He feels like a kid again.

“I was going to make my big declaration… but I don’t think I can beat yours,” Louis says in a gentle voice. Harry can feel his heart soaring in his chest and he lets out an involuntary laugh, one of pure joy.

Louis looks across at him, blue eyes twinkling, mouth open slightly, cheeks flushed from the cold or from something else, Harry isn’t sure. He wants to kiss him. He wants to hold him close so that he can feel their hearts beating in unison.

“Fuck it, I’ll do it anyway.”

“Yes, please.” Harry grins.

Louis takes a deep breath, looking out across the park. People are laughing and chatting, and a bird swoops by a picnic blanket and steals a piece of food. It feels idyllic and not real and Harry wants to pinch himself back to reality.

“God, I don’t even know where to start,” Louis shakes his head, eyes glassy. “I guess… well, I wanted to say sorry. For… for the other day. I thought maybe if I quit while I was ahead, I could go back to the way things were before.” He frowns down at the ground. Harry knows what he’s saying must be really hard for Louis to say because he can’t meet Harry’s eyes. He’s never been able to look at Harry when he’s this emotional. “S’fucked up, but I thought it would protect my heart, y’know, ending it now. Thought I could get out of it unscathed. But that was so fucking naïve, I mean, I’ve been in too deep since the day we met.” He finally looks at Harry, eyes imploring, “And honestly, I don’t even know why I thought I wanted to go back to the way things were in the first place. Things were… fucking horrible. I missed you every day. I fucking…” He blinks back tears, laughing awkwardly. “I… I want to do this. You and me. Properly this time. Always have. I love you and I can’t stand being apart.” At that, Louis swivels, bringing a leg up to rest on the bench. He’s facing Harry’s side when he says, “but _fuck_ , Harry, aren’t you scared?”

Harry swallows. “Terrified.”

“How can you know you won’t get sick of me again?”

“I won’t.”

“How can you be sure?” Louis asks with sad eyes, “Maybe we’ve grown out of some stuff, but who’s to say we won’t fall out of love? Or drive each other mental or –"

“We will!” Harry says happily. Louis looks like he’s been slapped and Harry is quick to explain. “I mean, _of course_ we’ll drive each other mental. We always have. And... and Louis, listen.” Now he’s filled with confidence. He sits up straighter, leaning toward Louis, smiling almost manically. “Let’s say it does happen, right? We fall out of love. It won’t be like last time. We’d talk about it. We’d listen to each other. I’m not scared of that stuff anymore. People fall out of love every day. 30 year long marriages end every day.”

“Where are you going with this…” Louis begins uneasily.

“ _Listen._ It happens. But you make the choice every day to wake up and love each other. I make that choice today and I’ll make it tomorrow and I know I’ll make it for as long as you let me. I’d fall back in love with you a million times over, if that’s what it takes, at the hardest times to keep you. I’d do it.”

“It’s that simple?” Louis asks, looking wistful now, a little breathless, and completely in love.

“It’s never that simple.” Harry sighs. “But Louis… you were wrong, you know. When you said we’re always going to end. I didn’t know how to put it into words before. Louis, we don’t always end. We always find each other again. It’s just a matter of perspective.”

Louis stares at Harry, a growing smile lighting up his face. “I never thought of it that way. You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Harry counters cockily, feeling the fist around his heart has not only loosened its grip but let go completely. He’s never felt so light and free.

“You’re wonderful,” Louis says so quietly that Harry almost doesn’t hear it. “Can I…” 

Harry nods, surging forward before Louis can finish asking his question. Louis’ eyes flutter closed as their lips meet with smiles, a rush of warmth flooding Harry’s veins. His palm comes up to cradle Louis’ cheek, feels the radiating heat of his blush. Their lips part, keen and tentative at the same time, sighing into each other’s mouths. Harry feels Louis’ hand grasp his neck, comb through his curls, tastes the unadulterated faith on Louis’ tongue. It’s soft and dizzying. It promises so much.

The sudden, ear-splitting barks of both Cliff and Bruce cause Louis and Harry to jump apart in fright. Staring across at them, the big brown eyes of two antsy dogs, wagging their tails and sticking their tongues out.

“Do you bloody mind!?” Louis shouts back at them. Harry, recovering from his surprise, can’t help but laugh. Louis shakes his head, trying not to find amusement at the moment, but inevitably rolling his eyes. He mutters a curse as he leans across and unhooks their collars from the leashes.

The second the dogs are free, they run freely, bounding across the park. Harry and Louis watch them.

After a prolonged, comfortable silence, Louis turns to Harry and asks sincerely, “What now?”

Harry thinks of the logistics – calling Jane back, finally telling her everything. They’ll inform the team a staged break up won’t be necessary. Then there’s Niall and Liam, their beaming, incandescent faces so easy to picture already. He also imagines Mitch and Sarah, nervously pacing, waiting for Harry’s inevitable call. So many people to tell. And so many things to come. Days and weeks and months. Come June, when the poppies will have bloomed right where they sit now and the dogs will play the same way. One Direction will return, just four boys, ten years older and wiser. The crowds will scream and with Louis by his side, Harry will feel all the love he’s ever wanted and then some. 

There’s time for that later. Right now though, Harry wants to watch the sun rise on Louis’ face. He wants to memorise the lines in his lips and the flecks in his blue eyes. He wants to have this moment for as long as he can.

His own words, from what feels like a lifetime ago on Louis’ couch, come back to him now. When they were strangers and all Harry wanted was to know Louis again. He had no idea he’d get so lucky. 

“Anything.” Harry smiles. “Everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. First and foremost, if you're reading this, you're the best. Thank you to everyone who read, commented, kudos-ed etc. etc. My heart is forever yours.
> 
> Special shout out to... Hailey (pinkcords on [Tumblr](http://pinkcords.tumblr.com) and [AO3](archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcords)) - thank you for beta reading and editing this mess of a fic, you're too kind! Robyn (bluejeanlouis on [Tumblr](http://bluejeanlouis.tumblr.com), kiddle on [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kiddle)) for being my writing wingman, and for the constant moral support! And last but not least to my lovely girlfriend for being my number one fan, for reading every chapter enthusiastically even though you aren't even in the fandom. Bless. 
> 
> Oh! Also, feel free to like and reblog the brand new [gifset promo](harryrainbows.tumblr.com) for the fic! Your support means the world :)
> 
> I'm already working on my next fic, so don't forget me! Also, I'll be around on [Tumblr](harryrainbows.tumblr.com/post/625975255534567424/youve-got-my-devotion-hate-you-sometimes-by) don't hesitate to say hello! 
> 
> References
> 
> ★ The [Electric Cinema](https://www.electriccinema.co.uk/) on Portobello is real  
> ★ The movie they were seeing was Little Women. Harry left within the first ten minutes which he describes briefly and you can watch those scenes [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-K6driOWkw)  
> ★ Mick’s speech is loosely inspired by the pep-talk in [Along Came Polly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQ0voxOwRMs)  
> ★ The end scene is loosely inspired by the climax of the film [You’ve Got Mail](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55oQA4cwd6M). (If you haven’t seen the film, don’t watch this because it spoils it! Also, go watch the film. What are you doing.)  
> ★ London Fields is a [real park](https://www.cityam.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/londonfields-960x641.png) in Hackney, London. It is [beautiful](https://live.staticflickr.com/7502/28169197405_41c763486e_b.jpg) in bloom!


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